<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Sparking a Fire by Xemichal</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24537286">Sparking a Fire</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xemichal/pseuds/Xemichal'>Xemichal</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Teen Wolf (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Basically all the major canon villains will make an appearance of some kind, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Discussions of Suicide, Discussions of past suicide attempt, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mate bonds, Post-Canon, Werewolf Bonds</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 10:35:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>41,064</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24537286</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xemichal/pseuds/Xemichal</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>19 year old Stiles Stilinski returns home after a year in and out of a mental health clinic to a house holding its breath. With his father walking on eggshells and his best friend continuing a long tradition of flaking out at the last minute, Stiles is tired.<br/>A chance encounter with a werewolf and the discovery of the supernatural world his father and best friend had been hiding from him since sophomore year of high school might be just what it takes to bring some normalcy back to his life.<br/>Or something. </p><p>NOTE: This fic takes place in a world where Scott kept everything going on after he was turned into a werewolf from Stiles. I'll be glossing over many aspects of canon that this would change, but I'm mostly ignoring a good chunk of canon anyway.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>81</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>167</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>End notes will contain spoilers for possible triggers in each chapter. If I need to add anything, please let me know and I will try to be mindful of what I can catch.<br/>Also, this fic will not have an update schedule, but I am riding a high of late-quarantine creative energy. This is the first time I've written anything sizable in a couple of years, so bear that in mind.<br/>Please note that while I appreciate your thoughts on my work, I am not looking for criticism, even if constructive, with this fic. I am simply writing the kind of story that I want to put out.<br/>That said, this fic WILL incorporate a major Original Character. If that is not your thing, please simply refrain from reading.<br/>Either way, please enjoy!<br/>And find me on Tumblr at theicykey.tumblr.com</p><p>Trigger warnings for this chapter include discussions of a past suicide attempt, discussions of anxiety and panic attacks, and discussions of depression. More notes on that at the end.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>                Stiles Stilinski mechanically brushed his teeth in the dim light of the bathroom he’d used since he was born. It was a Friday—he was pretty sure—in the early summer. He was honestly proud of himself for knowing that much. He stared resolutely ahead, trying—as he had for the last three mornings—not to look at the bathtub to his right. His dad had asked if he’d wanted to use the master bathroom, and Stiles had reluctantly declined. Mostly. His dad didn’t have to know that he’d been showering there, anyway.</p><p>                He focused on his face in the mirror. He didn’t really want to look there, either, but it seemed the lesser of two evils. His brown hair was scruffier than he liked it to be—he didn’t remember the last time he’d gotten it cut—but it was still manageable. At least he didn’t have to shave very often, so his face wasn’t a patchwork of nastiness.</p><p>                His cheeks were still slightly sunken, the angles of his face more distinct. He’d lost weight in the last year—weight he couldn’t really afford to lose. It wasn’t that he’d tried to do so, he just had trouble remembering to eat sometimes. And by sometimes he meant often. And by often he meant at one point he was lucky to remember to eat one meal a day. He was also paler than he had been in a long time, too. The countless hours spent inside trying to fix himself had carved aching reminders of how awful things had been. How far things had had to go before anyone had noticed that anything was wrong.</p><p>                He was better than he had been, but it was all still a visceral reminder of how wrong the entire year had been. He’d been in and out of a mental health facility as his father tried to pick up the pieces following “the incident.” His hands still shook every time he remembered his dad’s face hovering over him, wracked with grief as his dad had tried to keep him awake until the ambulance arrived. He thought about it every time his dad’s voice got too gentle, too cautious, as if around an easily-spooked deer. The bags that clung desperately to the underside of Stiles’ eyes mocked him, reminded him of everything he wanted to get away from.</p><p>                He shook his head and spit out the toothpaste in his mouth, put the toothbrush in its holder, and bolted out of the bathroom as quickly and quietly as he could. He creeped back into his bedroom and softly shut the door before stalking over to his bed and plopping down onto his back with his socked feet still planted on the floor. His dad wasn’t up yet—Sheriff Stilinski hardly ever rose before seven, if he could help it—but early morning light spilled through the thin pale-blue curtains of Stiles’ windows, so he knew he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep. He’d become accustomed, over the past year, to light meaning morning. Though he didn’t appreciate how early that meant he’d have to get up sometimes, it at least kept some consistency with his schedule. He needed that right now.</p><p>                Stiles had never been one for quiet or solitude—even now that was true—but he’d come to appreciate the stillness of the early morning over the course of his year away from Beacon Hills. His therapist had tried to help him be okay with those moments, and he hoped he was getting better at appreciating them. Still, the silence now chafed underneath his skin. The quiet in the Stilinski house wouldn’t go away when his dad got up, so it felt less like a breath before an exhale, and more like suffocation. Every time he and his dad had been in the same room since he’d been back, it’d felt like the vacuum of “the incident” had been sucking up every molecule of oxygen. He wasn’t sure his dad knew how to handle him now—no amount of training or research can prepare you for hurting both to see your child and in not seeing them. Noah Stilinski wasn’t known for effusive gestures—neither of them had been big on emotion-talk before, for that matter—but ever since his return, Stiles had noticed that his father seemed even more withdrawn, hesitating ever so slightly in every interaction.</p><p>                His father’s behavior made him want to scream, but he knew where it was coming from. The worry was palpable. He knew he’d have to get used to it. Everyone else in town who knew the extent of “the incident” would probably treat him similarly. It was part of why he hadn’t gone out and about just yet. That, and he didn’t want to run into the possibility of getting cancelled on last minute. That wouldn’t be good for his still-recovering mental health.</p><p>                Though he’d been released to go home, he knew he still wasn’t better. He likely never would be better, even if everyone kept saying it was a process he was still in the middle of. It wasn’t like his situation had magically shifted overnight. He was still the lame guy who kept hanging onto the coattails of unreciprocated or dying friendships, still the awkward virgin that nobody looked at twice, still the loner nobody wanted around. Still a disappointment to his parents.</p><p>                His eyes stung, so he closed them. He’d tried really hard not to think about how his mom would’ve felt about everything. It’d hurt enough to wake up in the hospital the first night after the incident to see his father absolutely broken. He didn’t want to mar the image he still had of his mother like that.  </p><p>                A knock at the door relieved Stiles of the thought spiral. It was a courtesy—Stiles knew his dad would come in regardless of an answer—but Stiles still offered a soft, “Come in.”</p><p>                His dad gently opened the door, still in his pajamas. He’d taken to doing this since Stiles had been back, checking in before his shower. “Morning, kiddo. Sleep okay?”</p><p>                Stiles shrugged truthfully. “No nightmares at least,” he said. That part was a lie, but one nightmare was better than the three or four he usually had during the night. “I’ll make breakfast while you shower.”</p><p>                His dad smiled gently, hesitantly. “Yeah, okay.” The two paused in awkward silence, allowing Stiles to take stock of his father.</p><p>                His dad’s face had always been kind, but firm in a way that belied the authority placed on his shoulders as Sheriff. He’d aged more in the months Stiles had been away—a fact of which Stiles wasn’t proud of, because he knew he was to blame. He looked tired, exhausted to the bone in a way that showed with every movement of his body, every worry-line on his face.</p><p>                His dad seemed to try to say something a few times—he seemed to be struggling with that a lot lately, not that Stiles could blame him—before he seemed to find what he wanted to say. “You want to come in with me today? Some of the deputies have been asking about you.” He took a breath. “I’m not going to force you, I just wanted to give you the option.” His dad seemed to be doing that a lot. Suggestions rather than expectations.</p><p>                Stiles shrugged. Might as well start getting it over with. “Okay,” he said. “Practice for Scott, I guess.” His best friend would want to see him eventually, after all, even if they weren’t that close anymore. He pulled himself up and started gathering clothes for the day. “Wanna—wanna grab donuts?” A peace offering, he hoped. He hadn’t mentioned anything about his dad’s diet since he’d been back, but this was the first time he’d offered a treat like that. Before the incident, he’d have never offered something like this.</p><p>                What would have made his dad suspicious before was now just accepted. “Okay,” he said, “Sounds like a plan. Be ready in fifteen, okay?”</p><p>                Stiles saluted half-heartedly as his dad stepped out of the room and closed the door softly behind him. Stiles clenched his jaw. He hoped his dad stopped tip-toeing around him soon. It was already starting to grate on him.</p><p>                Having showered the night previously, all Stiles had to do was wet his hair enough to comb it and get it styled like he liked it, make sure to take his Adderall, then get dressed. He opted for a simple jeans and Star Wars graphic tee combo, with a light layer of plaid as an overshirt. It was all loose-fitting at the moment, but it was as close to “normal Stiles” as he could get. He hoped that people would take that as a sign to treat him normally. It likely wouldn’t work, but at least he’d tried.</p><p>                A little over half an hour later, Stiles and his dad pulled into the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Station, still shoving donuts in their faces. It was familiar enough to put Stiles at ease, but he still wasn’t looking forward to what awaited inside.</p><p>                The deputy at the front desk was new—in fact, there were several new faces in the station—but he got quite a few greetings and hugs as he and his dad moved towards his office. One of the deputies stationed near his dad’s office, Jordan Parrish, looked up from a case file he was thumbing through as they approached. Parrish was a tall, handsome man with green eyes and brown hair. Stiles could admit he would have been into him if he hadn’t been a police officer—that would have gotten a little too close to being into his father, which was a big nope.</p><p>                Parrish smiled genuinely and put up his hand. “Hey, Stiles. Morning, Sheriff,” he said, “Could you take a look at something?” He indicated the case file on his desk.</p><p>                Stiles nodded at him, unsure of what to say. His dad, though, stopped to chat with him in undertones for a minute, so Stiles wandered into his dad’s office to sit down. It was the same as it’d always been, though it looked like some of the furniture had been replaced, some of it moved. Stiles sat in one of the chairs on the opposite side of his dad’s desk. It was familiar, even with new chairs. The smell of strong coffee permeated the whole station, and he closed his eyes against the familiar scent.</p><p>               </p><p>*             *             *</p><p> </p><p>                Stiles wandered down the darkened main hallway of Beacon Hills High School, cautious and alert. The edges were fuzzy, but fear overwhelmed that fuzziness until it pounded in his ears. A whoosh sounded behind him, forcing him to turn to try to glimpse whatever was lurking in the dark. Nothing. Another whoosh down another hallway, a glimpse of dense, blood-matted fur. Another whoosh to his left, a glimpse of blonde hair and a sinister laugh, the smell of smoke filling the air. Another whoosh, and another, and another. All accompanied by flashes of things that made no sense, monsters lurking just at the edge of his periphery. Another whoosh, and all he could see was a pair of snarling red eyes inches from his face. From behind him, “Let me in, Stiles.”</p><p> </p><p>*             *             *</p><p> </p><p>                He woke up and flung himself out of the chair, heart racing and mind reeling. He’d had flashes of things like that in the past, but never all of those things at once. None of it made sense. He fell to the floor as he collided with his dad’s desk, and he sunk down against it, struggling to make sense of where he was. The smell of coffee, the din of the station, his dad’s gentle voice counting to ten.</p><p>                “Breathe, son,” his dad said from beside him. “You’re awake, you’re okay.” His dad’s voice broke, and that more than anything brought him fully down from the panic.</p><p>                “I’m okay, dad. I’m okay.” He took a deep breath. His skin was clammy, and he felt sweat creeping down his back. He grimaced. “Seriously, I’m fine. Just a bad dream.”</p><p>                His dad took a few deep breaths. “Okay, kiddo.” He stood up and shuffled behind his desk and plopped down in the chair. “Why don’t I have a deputy drive you home?”</p><p>                Stiles frowned and sighed. One of his dad’s stipulations for being home was that Stiles would have to earn his way back to driving. He wasn’t a fan of it, but he understood it was coming from a place of concern. His Jeep could wait. “Sure,” he said, “I’ll text you when I get there.”</p><p>                His dad smiled weakly. “Thanks, kid.” He turned his attention back to the file on his desk. Stiles peeked over slightly, but his dad closed it. “Nice try,” he chuckled, “Now go grab Parrish. I know he won’t fall for any of your distractions.”</p><p>                Stiles huffed. He knew he wouldn’t get up to any of those old shenanigans anytime soon, but he appreciated his dad assuming that he was still the same old Stiles in that regard. Maybe the awkwardness between them wouldn’t last forever, after all. “Sure, dad. Catch some bad guys for me.”</p><p>                His dad smiled more genuinely and waved him off, and Stiles walked out of the office. A few eyes were trained on him, so he assumed he hadn’t been the quietest about the nightmare. He slunked towards Parrish’s desk, self-conscious suddenly. Parrish looked up at the approach. “Hey, Stiles,” he said. “Need something?”</p><p>                Stiles crossed his arms in an almost self-hug. “Yeah, could you take me home? My dad told me to find you.”</p><p>                Parrish’s eyes flicked to the door of the Sheriff’s office, confusion marring his face only briefly. “Sure,” he said, getting up.</p><p>                The ride home was awkward. Parrish kept glancing at him when he thought Stiles wouldn’t notice. It reminded him intensely of how delicate people were trying to be. He wasn’t five years old. He could be treated normally. He scowled out the window.</p><p>                “You, uh. You’re friends with Lydia, right?” Parrish asked suddenly. “Martin, I mean.”</p><p>                Stiles looked over at him with a cocked eyebrow. “Not really,” he admitted, “She was kind of a friend of a friend in high school.” Granted, he’d been obsessed with her for a number of years—he’d always been kind of intense about romance—but that time had passed when she and Scott had started hanging out. He’d been sort of included in it, if only by proxy at lunch and the occasional hang-out that he’d been invited to. But that all had ended after graduation. After the incident. “Why?”</p><p>                Parrish shrugged. “I’m seeing her. Thought I remembered you knew her.”</p><p>                Stiles nodded sluggishly. “Gotcha,” he said. He leaned his forehead against the window. “She, uh. She doing okay?” He wasn’t infatuated with her anymore, but he was still curious.</p><p>                “Yeah, she’s, uh. She’s good.” Parrish coughed. “Back from MIT for the summer. Taking a couple online classes through them. I think she wanted to be home for a while, though.”</p><p>                Stiles nodded. He hadn’t known she’d gone to college there. It was surreal, not knowing something about the girl he’d been obsessed with for years. The mention of college sent a hot prickle of shame and anxiety through him that settled uncomfortably in his stomach. He’d messed up that opportunity for himself. He was glad everyone had gone on to do stuff they wanted, but the reminder sucked sometimes.</p><p>                They pulled up to the Stilinski house shortly after that, and Stiles thanked Parrish for the ride. The deputy gave him a strange look, but said, “See you later, Stiles.”</p><p>                Stiles made his way inside and headed for the couch. He might as well watch something, after all. As soon as he sat down, though, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out to find a message from his best friend, Scott McCall.</p><p> </p><p>                <strong>Scott 9:47 AM</strong></p><p>                Hey! Wanna do dinner tonight? Just you n me</p><p> </p><p>                Stiles hesitated. He really did want to see Scott, but he was terrified of being cancelled on, of their friendship continuing on like it had towards the end of high school. He didn’t want to lose his brother, but he wasn’t sure if he could take things going back to that. He took a deep breath and tried to remember the oodles of time he’d spent in therapy trying to get over this exact sort of thing. It really hadn’t helped him much, it seemed.</p><p> </p><p>                <strong>Me 9:53 AM</strong></p><p>                Time and place. I’ll be there.</p><p> </p><p>                <strong>Scott 9:55 AM</strong></p><p>                Diner near the station at 7 work?</p><p> </p><p>                <strong>Me 9:57 AM</strong></p><p>                It has a name you know. But yeah that works.</p><p> </p><p>                <strong>Scott 10:00 AM</strong></p><p>                Do you know the name of the diner</p><p> </p><p>                <strong>Me 10:01 AM</strong></p><p>                Don’t call me out like this!</p><p> </p><p>                <strong>Me 10:02 AM</strong></p><p>                See you at 7 Scotty</p><p> </p><p>                Scott sent back a smiley emoticon a couple minutes later, and Stiles smiled softly at the phone. It felt nice to still be able to joke around like that. He hadn’t been sure how Scott would act with him now. He hoped that in-person was similarly normal.</p><p>                He was—for the first time since he’d been back—hopeful that the day would be a good one.</p><p> </p><p>*             *             *</p><p> </p><p>                Stiles spent most of the rest of the day leading up to dinner on the couch, watching mindless television. He had a light lunch—not really hungry yet after the nightmare earlier, but he was trying to be better about eating consistently—and showered at around 6. At 6:30, he grabbed his wallet and house key, texted his dad about where he was going, and started towards the diner.</p><p>                On his way in, he spotted a fairly familiar figure walking across the street. Derek Hale—famous in town for being one of the last survivors of the Hale Fire—hot enough to melt the polar ice caps as always, strode down the street confidently, but with a dour look on his face. He was stunning—dark hair styled like all of the bad boy fantasies Stiles could ever dream of, thick eyebrows emotive and perfectly maintained, chiseled jawline covered with delightful stubble, bulging muscles making all of his clothes look tailored to his exact proportions, shoulders nearly straining his signature leather jacket. Stiles drank his fill before Derek disappeared from view a few seconds later. Stiles sighed after the beautiful specimen of a man—who’d been the subject of more than a few fantasies towards the end of high school—before stepping into the diner.</p><p>                Fifteen minutes later, he tapped his finger on the slightly tacky table at one of the booths near the front. He clicked his phone awake. No messages. Stiles really didn’t like waiting, but he and Scott hadn’t seen each other in nearly a year, so he was trying to be patient.</p><p>                He worried at his lip. Would things be different between them now? Things were already different with his dad, but his dad had seen the worst of the breakdown. He wasn’t sure how much Scott knew about the whole thing, but the Sheriff had at least given him the broad strokes. Honestly, though, Stiles was still half-convinced that Scott probably hadn’t noticed his absence at all. They’d gotten more distant near the end of high school, after all, so he wasn’t even sure what Scott would want to do with him now.</p><p>                “All decided yet, hon?” The waitress said out of nowhere.</p><p>                Stiles flinched a little at the sudden noise, startled out of his thoughts. “Uh, I’m waiting for someone. But I’ll take a coke, if you have it.” She smiled, nodded, and went on her way. His phone buzzed.</p><p> </p><p>                <strong>Scott 7:17 PM</strong></p><p>                Sorry dude but can we meet up tomorrow something kind of came up</p><p> </p><p>                Stiles’ heart dropped, but he locked his jaw and took a deep—but shaky—breath. He let it out slowly, like the therapist had recommended, but couldn’t help the sinking feeling in his stomach, the buzz under his skin. He closed out of Scott’s text thread and flipped over to his dad’s, letting him know that Scott had cancelled, so he was heading home.</p><p>                He shoved his phone back into his pocket and took his wallet out as the waitress came back. “Sorry,” he said, “I actually have to get going. Can I pay now?”</p><p>                The pity in her eyes didn’t help the buzz under his skin. “Of course,” she said.</p><p>                It didn’t take long to get the bill sorted—it was only the coke, untouched—but he made sure to tip generously as a silent apology. A hot prickle of shame settled in his stomach as he left the diner. He hated doing this sort of thing, but he hated sitting alone in a diner even more. He’d done it too many times in high school, and doing it again would just bring him back to that.</p><p>                Walking home would be a bit of a chore—it’d take at least 15 minutes with shortcuts—but the temperature was at least pleasant. He stuck his hands in his pockets and ducked through a back alley heading towards a parking lot. It wasn’t exactly the most well-travelled route home, but it’d be quicker.</p><p>                As he was nearing the end of the alley, where it opened into the parking lot, a crash echoed nearby. The prickle under his skin swelled, but he was curious enough to edge towards the corner to get a peek. His curiosity had gotten him into trouble on more than one occasion, but with nothing else going on tonight, he could hardly resist.</p><p>                The first thing he saw as he peeked around the corner was the back of a very well-muscled man in a shredded, bloody shirt and blood-stained jeans. Stiles’ eyes widened at the sight of blood, but then caught on the form in front of the man. Seemingly crunched into the unnaturally dented front of one of those big trash bins they have for stores and restaurants and whatever was an image straight out of a monster movie.</p><p>                The creature looked like a cross between a man and some kind of animal—maybe a wolf, if he had to guess. The face was contorted into a snarl, with a raised brow and hair sprouting up all over the sides of the head, almost like sideburns. The sharp fangs dripped with saliva as the creature snarled at the man in front of him, glowing blue eyes piercing right into the muscular man.</p><p>                Stiles could practically feel his pulse start to race as he took in the scene in front of him. He didn’t know what to make of it. As if sensing him, the muscular man turned and looked straight at Stiles, growling in a way no human ever could. With a start, Stiles immediately recognized the man as Derek Hale.</p><p>                Derek’s eyes began to glow the same blue as the creature crunched into the side of the trash bin, and with a bit of a growl layered underneath, he yelled “Go! Get out of here!”</p><p>                Stiles startled at the direct address, but it merely froze him in place. He fumbled with words for a second, letting out a series of hums and stuttering ums before Derek’s attention furthered into the parking lot, where several more pairs of footsteps were slapping against the pavement.</p><p>                The creature took this as an opportunity to lunge out from where it had clearly been knocked into the trash bin, snarling and aiming for Derek’s throat with its teeth.</p><p>                Stiles was suddenly overcome with terror—not for himself, but at the thought of someone being hurt because of him. “No!” He yelled.</p><p>                Just as the creature jumped out at Derek’s neck, it was thrown back with invisible force and crunched into the same trash bin, but a few feet to the left. Stiles felt exhausted all of a sudden, and his legs shook a little. Derek whipped around and furrowed his brow at Stiles. Stiles gulped and forced himself to look at the approaching people coming from the other side of the parking lot. The hum under his skin started to roar as he recognized each and every person that approached.</p><p>                Leading the charge was Scott—his best friend since childhood—eyes glowing bright red and teeth extended into sharp fangs. Right beside him was Scott’s on again/off again girlfriend Allison Argent, a crossbow in hand with some kind of bolt already knocked. Behind them came Kira Yukimura—another on again/off again of Scott’s—wielding a goddamn Katana, and Jackson Whittemore—a bully throughout Stiles’ life who seemed to have come back from living in England.</p><p>                As they got near, Allison let loose the bolt in her crossbow, which sunk into the creature’s chest. It slumped over almost immediately.</p><p>                “Sc—Scott?” Was all he could manage. He couldn’t believe this. Was he going crazy?</p><p>                Scott’s glowing red eyes tracked onto Stiles for a moment. “What the fuck are you doing here, Stiles? Go!”</p><p>                The word was said with a force behind it that Stiles could almost feel it pushing him back. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, and he fell backwards onto the pavement. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. The walls of the alleyway were closing in on him and he felt his chest compress as he recognized the panic setting in. What the fuck was going on?</p><p>                “Fuck,” he heard Scott’s normal voice say, distant beyond the hum of the panic. “Jackson, get him out of here. Get him to Lydia. Stay alert. There could be more nearby.”</p><p>                For the first time that Stiles had ever seen, Jackson did as he was told. Silently. Without complaint. This struck Stiles as unsettlingly wrong. He felt himself get picked up by strong arms—bridal style—and carried away while his body bumped against the hard planes of a muscular chest. It was warm—too warm—which wasn’t helping how much he wanted to crawl out of his own skin. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the techniques his therapist had taught him, but was having trouble thinking about anything but sharp fangs and glowing eyes.</p><p>                “Breathe with me, Stiles,” a soft voice said nearby. It was familiar, but he was having trouble focusing right now. He just did as he was told, matching the rhythm as best as he could. It helped, and he got back into himself enough to recognize that the person breathing with him was Lydia Martin, shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair whipping gently in the breeze. He felt a rush of shame at being seen like this—especially by her and Jackson.</p><p>                “He saw,” Jackson said from above him. It seemed that Jackson had set him onto the ground at some point. He looked up at his former tormenter and found what could have been mistaken for concern in Jackson’s eyes. It forced a laugh out of his chest that helped to ground him a little further.</p><p>                “I’m going fucking crazy,” he said, to himself more than either of the people with him.  “Fuck. I’m going crazy.”</p><p>                “Just keep breathing, Stiles,” Lydia said to him. “Did he see Scott?”</p><p>                Jackson huffed. “Unfortunately,” he said, “I think that’s what triggered the attack. He just smelled anxious when we found him. I guess he just got caught at the wrong place, at the wrong time.”</p><p>                Lydia sighed. “You just have to come back to Beacon Hills in the middle of a crisis, don’t you?” Stiles wasn’t sure who she was directing it at.</p><p>                “I texted Parrish,” Jackson said, “The Sheriff should be here soon to take him home.” He chuckled lightly. “I’m sure he’s not looking forward to this whole thing.”</p><p>                Lydia grimaced. “Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later. I’m actually surprised it took this long.”</p><p>                Stiles closed his eyes and forced one last breath out. The hum was still under his skin, but it was feeling better. “What the fuck are you two talking about? What the fuck is going on? Am I going crazy?” He ran a hand through his hair. “Fuck, am I finally losing it?”</p><p>                Lydia rubbed his back, which prompted a sob from Stiles as tears began to fall. “You’re not crazy, Stiles,” she said. She and Jackson exchanged a look that he couldn’t interpret. “You’ll want to hear it from your dad.”</p><p>                He wiped at his eyes and started bouncing his leg anxiously as he tried to take in their surroundings. They seemed to be down the road from the parking lot, across the street from the town’s largest park. The cars in front of them were ones he recognized as belonging to Derek and Jackson.</p><p>                His dad’s cruiser pulled up in front of them, so he stood up on shaky legs to move for the passenger door. He tripped a little, and Jackson caught his arm. Stiles flinched and pulled away from Jackson’s grip before forcing himself to walk alone towards his dad’s car. Without looking at them, Stiles held a shaky hand up as a half-hearted wave as he stepped inside.</p><p>                He didn’t dare look at his dad. He kept his eyes trained on the floor of the car, where bits of food had fallen and a couple of wrappers were collecting near the seat. He picked at the hem of his shirt—hands still shaking—as his dad pulled away and took him home.</p><p> </p><p>*             *             *</p><p> </p><p>                The ride home was silent, but gratefully short. His dad pulled in next to Stiles’ neglected baby blue Jeep, and Stiles was out of the car and unlocking the front door before Sheriff Stilinski had even opened his car door. Feeling a lot less shaky than he had before getting into the car, he barreled inside and stomped up the stairs before crashing into his room and nearly slamming the door. He didn’t lock it—couldn’t lock it anymore—but he hoped it was a clear indication that he didn’t want to talk. He ran his hands through his hair and let out a breath as he faceplanted onto his bed.</p><p>                His dad knocked quietly on the door. Stiles almost wanted to ignore it. He sighed and rolled onto his back. “Yeah?”</p><p>                His dad opened the door and walked in, his face somewhere between worry and shame. “I know you don’t want to talk, kiddo, but I think we need to.”</p><p>                Stiles stared at the ceiling above him for a few moments. “I’m scared I might be going crazy, dad.” His voice broke on the last word. Tears threatened at the corners of his eyes.</p><p>                His dad sighed and sat beside him on the bed. “You’re not going crazy, Stiles.”</p><p>                His voice still cracking, tears still threatening, Stiles sat up and said, “How do you know, dad? Because I saw things that only a crazy person would see. I can’t explain how—how does Scott—?” He rubbed his hands over his eyes. “What the fuck is going on, dad?”</p><p>                “Language,” his dad chided without any heat. He sighed, then tapped his hand on his knee a couple times. “I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just gonna be blunt.” He leaned forward and clasped his hands together. “Scott is a werewolf, son.”</p><p>                Stiles’ leg started bouncing. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m not going crazy?”</p><p>                His dad shook his head. “I’m sorry you had to find out like this, but we didn’t want to bring you into it if you didn’t need to be.”</p><p>                He stood abruptly and paced over to his window and back a couple of times before turning back to his father. “So you knew about this?” He injected as much hurt into it as he could. “Is this why I was so—so left out by everybody at the end of high school? Why you weren’t home as much? Why I—” He choked on the last part, voice fading at the implication, and tears spilling onto his cheeks.</p><p>                Hid dad’s eyes bugged out and he stood up, too. “Jesus, no Stiles. How could you think that? We thought that keeping you out of it would keep you safe.”</p><p>                Stiles nodded a couple times and rubbed his hands together. “Safe,” he said, as if it was a dirty word. “I thought we were all about truth, huh dad? Or is that only when it’s convenient for you? When your disappointment of a son—”</p><p>                “Enough,” his dad said, “That is different and you know it.”</p><p>                “Except I don’t, dad!” He practically yelled. “I fucking don’t! How am I supposed to tell you what’s going on with me if you won’t do the same thing!”</p><p>                His dad pursed his lips. He took a deep breath in, then a deep breath out. “I’m sorry, son. I never thought about it that way.”</p><p>                Stiles wiped at his eyes a few times to get the moisture away. “Look, I don’t want to hold the breakdown over your head, dad. I’m sorry.” The fight left him, and he slumped against the wall by his window. “I was already in a bad mood because of Scott cancelling last minute—again—and then the panic attack because of the—werewolves?” He looked up at his dad incredulously. “Seriously?”</p><p>                His dad chuckled lightly. “Yeah, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”</p><p>                Stiles chewed on his bottom lip. “Is this why you didn’t send me to Eichen House after--?” He cleared his throat. “After?”</p><p>                His dad nodded. “Partly. I wanted to get you out of Beacon Hills while you were recovering. But you’d be surprised at how much crap goes on up there, anyway.” He sniffed. “Beacon Hills is, well, kind of a beacon for this kind of stuff. Seemed safer to send you away while you recovered. And with that fancy program we got you into, it meant you could focus entirely on recovering and less on—” He waved his hand in the general direction of the window. “All the other crap in the world.”</p><p>                Stiles nodded solemnly. He picked at his cuticles a little. “How long have you known?”</p><p>                His dad let out a huff. “Do you remember when I was investigating Laura Hale’s murder?”</p><p>                “Vaguely, yeah.”</p><p>                “Scott got turned right around then. I found out a few months later.”</p><p>                Stiles nodded and looked down at the floor. “When he started getting distant.” He picked a little at the carpet. “I always thought he just didn’t want to hang out anymore because I put him in danger all the time snooping into police business.”</p><p>                His dad smiled weakly. “Kid, you two love each other like the brothers you never had. I think he was trying to distance himself so you wouldn’t get caught up in it, too.”</p><p>                He couldn’t bring himself to look at his dad for the next question. “Does he know—”</p><p>                “That it was hurting you as bad as it was? I don’t know.” He paused. “But I think you should talk to him about all this. I’m not exactly used to being the werewolf welcoming committee. I think the pack thought it’d be easier to hear it from me.”</p><p>                Stiles laughed. “What, like a wolf pack?” He took a shaky breath. It was all a little strange and overwhelming, but some of the pieces were starting to slot into place. He’d gotten more of an explanation for his friend’s behavior in the last hour than he’d gotten in the last few years. He’d take it, even if it was a little much to deal with. He bit his lip. “I guess I should talk to him, then.”</p><p>                His dad smiled softly. “Okay, kiddo. I’ll let him know. I gotta head back anyway. We think the guy they’re dealing with is responsible for a murder in town.”</p><p>                “Okay,” Stiles said, “I’m gonna just, like, think for a while. Reorient my entire worldview to accommodate the existence of the supernatural and all that.” His stomach grumbled. “And probably eat something since I bailed from the diner when Scott cancelled.”</p><p>                His dad chuckled, and the two of them got up to share a brief hug before going downstairs. As soon as they hit the bottom, though, there was a knock on the door. The two shared an eyebrow raise before the Sheriff went to answer.</p><p>                The door swung open to reveal Derek Hale—wearing a non-tattered, dark blue Henley and his signature leather jacket now—who gave his dad a brief closed-mouth smile before stepping inside. “Hey, Noah,” he said, his voice deep, but soft. “Scott sent me over to keep an eye on things until he could get here. Said he’d meet you at the loft.”</p><p>                The Sheriff gave Derek a brief closed-mouth smile back. “No issues, then?”</p><p>                “Safe inside a mountain ash circle. Interrogation’s already begun.”</p><p>                The Sheriff nodded. “I’ll be off then. See you two later.”</p><p>                As the Sheriff left the house, Stiles suddenly felt intensely awkward. He didn’t really know Derek that well aside from the random spotting in town and the infrequent fantasy. The man seemed to know his dad really well, though. “Scott’s interrogating someone?” He asked, unsure of what else to say.</p><p>                Derek’s gaze pierced Stiles’—his blue-green eyes made Stiles’ knees a little weak—before he huffed and said, “Yeah. Shocking, I’m sure.” He looked vaguely uncomfortable for a second as he scowled. “Mind if we sit down and talk?”</p><p>                Stiles motioned the go-ahead, and Derek maneuvered around the room towards the couch, taking a seat near the end, where Stiles had been sitting for most of the day. Stiles sat in the armchair nearby, where his dad liked to sit. They were close enough to touch, and that realization caused a tingling hum under his skin. “I’m a little surprised that you’re part of the welcoming committee. I would have taken that to be more Scott or Lydia’s thing.”</p><p>                Derek huffed a laugh, and his eyes lit up briefly in a way that took Stiles’ breath away. He’d always known Derek was an attractive man—had drooled over him and fantasized about him more times than he could count—but this felt different, more intimate in a way that had Stiles’ heartbeat speeding. “You’re not wrong,” Derek said. “The others are a little busy, to be honest. They thought I could handle answering questions. And everyone seemed to think you would have plenty of them.” Derek smiled softly at him—too softly. Stiles would have to take a very long shower later.</p><p>                Stiles bit his lip and tried to focus on questions, even if his brain tried to keep wandering to things like how soft Derek’s lips may or may not be. “So my dad mentioned that Scott got turned? What’s that about?”</p><p>                Derek nodded. “Some wolves are born—like me—but others, like Scott and most of the rest of the pack, got the Bite.”</p><p>                Stiles’ thoughts immediately turned filthy. He coughed. “Bite?” Derek lifted one of his   thick eyebrows judgmentally in Stiles’ direction. “Don’t judge me, I’m learning,” he said indignantly, blush creeping up his face.</p><p>                Derek breathed out a quick laugh. “The Bite is what we call it when an Alpha bites a human. It generally takes a little more force than what you’re thinking.” His eyes glinted mischievously while Stiles spluttered.</p><p>                “Oh, fuck you, dude.” He laughed and bit the inside of his cheek. “So Alpha? Is that like, Alpha, Beta male shit?”</p><p>                Derek grimaced. “Don’t,” he said. “Alphas are the leaders. Betas are the followers. Kind of.”</p><p>                Stiles frowned and nodded approvingly. “Okay,” he said. “So, like. Was everyone there tonight a werewolf? I mean, are there things besides werewolves out there? Is my dad one and I didn’t know about it? I should have asked him that, though. Hm. Wait, would it be rude to ask someone their species? Race? Lycanthropic status? I don’t know the kind of terms I should be using here. I really hope I’m not offending you. And—”</p><p>                “Woah, woah. Easy,” Derek said, chuckling and holding out his hand to rest on Stiles’ arm. Stiles flushed. Derek regarded him appraisingly as he released Stiles’ arm. The area that he’d been touching almost burned from the loss of contact. “They were right. You do ask a lot of questions.”</p><p>                Stiles snorted. “No shit. It’s one of the many facets of my charming personality.” Derek lifted another judgmental eyebrow at him. “Oh, shut up, asshole,” Stiles said, laughing. “Just answer the damn questions.”</p><p>                Derek considered for a moment. “No, not everyone there tonight was a wolf. Yes, there are things besides wolves. Your dad is human. Don’t worry about saying the wrong thing right now. You’re fine.” He rattled the answers off in such quick succession that it threw Stiles for a bit of a loop.</p><p>                Stiles blinked for a second before he could formulate a response. “Wow, you actually paid attention.” Stiles sighed and frowned. “Sorry, I guess I’m just a little overwhelmed. And overwhelmed translates into curious, and curiosity leads to no brain-to-mouth filter.” His stomach grumbled loudly and he grimaced. Right. Food. “Do you mind if I order a pizza or something, though? I feel like I’m going to literally starve to death after the stress of the past hour. God, I just realized how hungry I am.”</p><p>                Derek huffed. “Go for it. Order a few, though. Can feed anyone else that might come over with Scott.” Derek paused. “Maybe we should just order enough for everyone. I’m not sure what’s happening.” He sighed and lifted his hips off of the couch to grab his wallet from his back pocket. Stiles looked away quickly while a blush crept up. “I’ll cover, okay?”</p><p>                Stiles nodded. “Yep. Of course. Totally. Mhm.” He busied himself with ordering the pizza, but his gaze kept flickering over to Derek, who seemed to be observing him. It wasn’t helping how he was feeling. With the pizza ordered, he took a sharp inhale before trying to look at anything but Derek.</p><p>                Derek’s gentle hand touched Stiles’ arm again. “Are you okay? I’m not familiar enough with your scent to tell, but you seem kind of off.”</p><p>                Stiles looked over at Derek nervously. “My scent?”</p><p>                Derek frowned and furrowed his brow. “Sorry. I know that’s a weird thing with humans. Wolves can smell all sorts of biochemical stuff coming off of people. We can tell what it means if we’re around the person enough, learn to recognize the changes certain biochemical stuff makes to their base scent. Sort of a mood indicator, an extra communication tool.” He shrugged.</p><p>                Stiles froze and tried to think of literally anything else to distract himself from the literal hottest man he had ever seen, who could apparently smell how Stiles was feeling. He hoped, viscerally, that Derek would never be able to tell that Stiles was attracted to him. He cleared his throat. “So, if you and Scott are both werewolves, why are your eyes blue and his are red? Y’know, when you do the whole—” He waved his hand in front of his face. “Eye thing.”</p><p>                Derek coughed and looked away for a second, scowling. “Scott’s an Alpha, I’m a Beta,” he said simply. </p><p>                Stiles laughed sharply. “Scott? A leader? Seriously?”</p><p>                Derek frowned. “He’s good at it. Don’t sell your friend short. He didn’t really have a lot of guidance at first, so he’s come a long way. He earned his status, which isn’t something that many people can say. We’re lucky to have him as our Alpha.”</p><p>                Stiles bit his lip, suddenly ashamed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to, like, insult your leader, or anything. I guess I’m just surprised that my best friend has this whole other side of him that’s so different from what I know, y’know?” He sighed. “Though I guess I don’t really know him anymore.”</p><p>                Derek bit his lip. “It tore him up a lot, keeping this from you,” he said. “I think it was harder after—” He huffed. “After graduation.”</p><p>                Stiles nodded. He didn’t dare look at Derek. “After I tried to kill myself, you mean.”</p><p>                The sharp intake of breath from his right told him he was right. “I’m sorry,” Derek said, “I know this is hard enough without bringing your struggles into it. I didn’t mean to—” He huffed. “I guess I did, I was just being insensitive.”</p><p>                Stiles waved it off. “I’m sick and tired of people dancing around it, anyway.” He sighed. “My dad won’t stop walking on eggshells.”</p><p>                Derek eyed Stiles warily for a few seconds. “I think everyone’s just worried.”</p><p>                “Yeah, I know.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “I don’t really blame them—can’t blame them, really—but I just wish it could go back to normal already.”</p><p>                The two sat silently for a minute, Derek watching him quietly. Stiles stared resolutely at the carpet. “Did you know,” Derek said suddenly, prompting Stiles to sneak a glance at him, “That werewolves are more social than humans? Pack bonding instincts.” He shrugged. “Wolves can literally sense the bond they have with another person—werewolf or not—so long as they have a deep connection with them. It takes some training and some focus to really sense anything from it—unless it’s a mate bond, but that’s generally different—but we feel those connections intimately, even when we don’t understand it.”</p><p>                Stiles’ eyes found Derek’s. “Okay?” He wasn’t sure where Derek was going with this.</p><p>                Derek looked down and fiddled with the edge of the couch. “When an Alpha senses trouble with someone they’re bonded to, sometimes a sense of that ripples throughout all the bonds that Alpha has.”</p><p>                Stiles frowned and furrowed his brow. “So, like, everyone can feel it if one of them is in enough pain? Like, something life threatening or—” He froze. He flicked his gaze to Derek and gulped. Derek stared straight back, something sorrowful flashing behind his eyes. They all knew. They’d felt it.</p><p>                “Most of the pack doesn’t really know you, Stiles,” Derek soldiered on, “But we’ve all been worried. And we’re really glad to have you back here, that you’re doing better.”</p><p>                Stiles huffed. “Weird as that is, it’s oddly comforting.” He smiled softly as a spark of something warm grew in his chest. It twisted with small notes of quiet sorrow as it grew. He couldn’t really explain it, but as soon as the feeling began to unfurl, Derek froze. Stiles furrowed his brow, and Derek’s eyes latched onto Stiles’ as he took a sharp breath. He shot up before knocking into the coffee table, tumbling down and crashing the coffee table along with him. He scrambled up and bolted out of the house before Stiles could even ask what was going on.</p><p>                “What the fuck?” Stiles said.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Suicide- Near the beginning, a brief allusion to the bathtub in Stiles' bathroom insinuates it is where the suicide attempt occurred. During his discussion with Derek, Stiles brings up a past suicide attempt. Throughout, multiple mentions of "the incident" in question are made, including veiled allusions to it. </p><p>Panic Attacks- After awakening from a nightmare, Stiles has a brief bout of panic. Later, immediately after seeing Scott in a parking lot, Stiles has a lengthy panic attack that ends with the next section. </p><p>Depression and Anxiety- Throughout, multiple allusions and descriptions of anxiety and depression are made.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>As always, a brief about the types of potentially triggering topics within the chapter will be included at the end. If I missed anything, PLEASE let me know!<br/>Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>                An hour after Derek bolted without any warning, Stiles nudged at the half-eaten slice of pizza on his plate and frowned. He was intensely confused about the entire interaction with Derek. He’d seemed nice the entire time he’d been there, and had seemed genuine about people being happy he was back. Maybe he wanted to believe that because of the person it had come from, but who could blame him. Either way, the end of the conversation baffled him. Maybe Derek had finally recognized what he’d been smelling in Stiles’ scent? Maybe he’d been horrified that a dude would be into him? But if he smelled that kind of thing a lot, wouldn’t he be at least a little used to that sort of attention? Or was he just horrified that someone like Stiles had deigned to look at him twice? But then why would he have been so nice? Had Scott told him to play nice? Or was there something he wasn’t seeing?</p><p>                He frowned at the greasy pepperoni on his plate as if it held the answers. At least the weird feeling in his chest he hadn’t been able to explain had gone away. Though in its wake, it had left a sense of hollowness, of wrongness. Maybe it was just residual from the weirdness of the conversation, though. He’d thought he was getting better at recognizing his own emotions, recognizing why he had them. But maybe that’d just been wishful thinking.</p><p>                There was the telltale click of the front door unlocking, then, and Stiles peered out from the kitchen to see Scott coming in. His dark hair was longer than it had been in a while, back to the messy mop he’d had on and off since middle school. He looked different from the last time they’d seen each other before the incident—older, more confident, maybe even a little broader-shouldered. Stiles had been a little too preoccupied by the supernatural stuff in the parking lot to notice until now. “Hey” he said as Scott made his way towards the kitchen.</p><p>                “Hey,” Scott said. “You doing okay?”</p><p>                Stiles scoffed. “On a scale from one to ‘the incident’ I think I’m rocking like a two. Though given the panic attack earlier, it might be closer to a four.” He shrugged.</p><p>                Scott frowned, his big dark-brown eyes going full kicked-puppy—a comparison which made all the more sense now than it had previously. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t want it to happen like this.</p><p>                “Yeah,” Stiles said, quiet and resigned, “I guess if you’d all had your way, I’d have never known. Just would have sat in my room and suffocated again.” He was still too stressed out about it all to throw on the mask he’d been intending to wear when he saw Scott again.</p><p>                Scott made a noise that sounded unnaturally like a sad dog. “I’m sorry, dude. I guess I never realized how—how bad everything was getting.”</p><p>                Stiles sighed. “It’s not like I was telling anyone, anyway. I guess I just thought you were ditching me for cooler friends.” He shrugged. “All those last-minute cancellations and abrupt departures. What was I supposed to think, Scotty?”</p><p>                Scott frowned, but sat down in the chair next to him. He looked up cautiously. “I didn’t want to put you in danger.”</p><p>                Stiles rubbed the back of his neck. “And you couldn’t have let me make that choice for myself?”</p><p>                Scott chuckled softly. “Yeah. I guess you would have liked all the saving the town stuff. Could have been the Robin to my Batman.”</p><p>                Stiles snorted. “Like I’d take orders from you, dumbass.” Scott smiled, wide and bright. Stiles hoped they’d be okay after this, but he also knew they had a lot more to talk about before that could happen. That could happen another day, though. A day when his entire world hadn’t shifted on its axis. “So can I make some decisions now,” Stiles said, “Or are you gonna growl at me and tell me to stay out of it?”</p><p>                Scott scoffed. “Like I’d be able to keep you out of it now.”</p><p>                “Damn straight,” Stiles said. They laughed softly, but fell silent quickly. He bit his lip and looked surreptitiously at Scott, gauging his reaction. “So, like. What’s Derek’s deal?” He hoped the arousal from earlier had vanished from his scent. Something told him it hadn’t, though, when Scott raised an eyebrow at him. “He was just, I don’t know. Chattier than I thought he’d be.”</p><p>                Scott’s brow furrowed. “Derek? Chatty?” He sniffed deeply a couple times. “Huh,” he said.</p><p>                Stiles felt a blush creep up. “Do not judge me right now,” he said. “He was all bright eyed and bushy tailed and talked about how everyone was excited for me to be back and stuff. It’s not a big deal. I was just, I don’t know, happy to hear it coming from someone so—like him, y’know?”</p><p>                Scott snorted. “Subtle,” he remarked. “If it makes you feel any better, that’s not what he’s usually like. He’s usually pretty quiet.”</p><p>                Stiles rolled his eyes. “So, what? He was trying extra super hard because you asked nicely?”</p><p>                Scott frowned and opened his mouth to say something, but said nothing. He opened and closed his mouth a few times. “I don’t know, actually,” he said. “If I focus, I can tell he’s feeling awful right now.”</p><p>                “Not sure he gets to feel awful when he literally broke the coffee table to get away from me.”</p><p>                Scott leaned around the wall into the living room to get a look at the collapsed piece of furniture. “Okay, that’s weird. What happened?”</p><p>                Stiles shrugged. “I dunno. I made a crack about the incident, and he was, like, weirdly intense and talked about wolf bonds and how everyone had been upset because you were upset or something.”</p><p>                Scott chewed on his lip for a minute. “Of course,” he groaned, “Of fucking course.” He stood up abruptly and stalked quickly towards the door. “We need to go see Dr. Deaton because I don’t trust going to Derek right now.”</p><p>                Stiles shook his head. Dr. Deaton was a veterinarian—Scott’s boss. Why would they need to go see him this late at night? “What the fuck are you talking about?”</p><p>                Scott paused at the door, bit his lip, and said, “I’m not sure I should tell you what I’m assuming until we can get confirmation from Dr. Deaton.”</p><p>                Stiles rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “More secrets, Scott. Really?”</p><p>                Scott shrugged. “I don’t want to freak you out if I’m wrong.”</p><p>                Stiles sighed. “Fine,” he said, “I trust you. Mostly. But why the town vet?”</p><p>                “Oh, he’s a Druid,” Scott said as they walked outside, as if that was a perfectly normal thing.</p><p>                Stiles sighed as he locked the door behind them. “Of course he is,” he muttered.</p><p> </p><p>*             *             *</p><p> </p><p>                Dr. Deaton’s clinic—the Beacon Hills Animal Clinic—was a small building that was miraculously lit inside, even though it was outside of the listed business hours. Stiles frowned as they got off Scott’s motorcycle and put their helmets on the handlebars. “He’s still here?” Stiles asked.</p><p>                Scott shrugged. “He usually is when we need him. I never question it.”</p><p>                Scott knocked on the door, and they only had to wait for a few seconds before Dr. Alan Deaton opened it. Dr. Deaton was a broad man with a shaved head and unreadable dark brown eyes. He was as expressionless as ever as he ushered them inside. “Stiles,” he said, “I’m surprised to see you here.” He looked at Scott questioningly.</p><p>                Scott shrugged. “He kind of ran into Derek while he was taking care of an Omega.”</p><p>                Deaton nodded. “So, the wolves are out of the bag, then. I can’t say I’m surprised. In fact, Stiles, I’m surprised that it took you this long to catch on.”</p><p>                Stiles snorted as they stepped inside. “Yeah, well I’ve been kind of busy.”</p><p>                The corner of Deaton’s mouth quirked slightly. “Indeed, you have been.” He closed and locked the door behind them as they shuffled into the small waiting area inside. “Now what can I do for you, gentlemen?” His gaze rested on Stiles, and he shifted uncomfortably under the vet’s watchful eye.</p><p>                “I think Stiles and Derek formed some kind of—” Scott said, shifting uncomfortably. He looked at Stiles apologetically. “Bond.” Stiles frowned. A bond?</p><p>                Deaton’s eyebrows rose. “I thought they didn’t know each other. That’s rather strange.”</p><p>                Scott nodded. “That’s what I thought,” he said. “The bond between Allison and I took time. But this happened within one conversation, I think. I’m pretty sure that’s what it is, just because of what I feel, but I can’t be sure without going to Derek. And I don’t really want to go down that road right away. I don’t want to upset him.”</p><p>                Stiles fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. “I gotta admit, I’m a little lost here.” He turned to Scott. “Bonds? Like, Derek and I started to become friends or something?”</p><p>                Scott frowned, but Dr. Deaton nodded. “I believe Scott sensed something strange occurring between yourself and Derek after the fact. The formation of a bond between a werewolf and a human is incredibly rare, and generally only occurs within packs. Yet you are not a member of this pack. And even then, they take time to form. They are not instantaneous, like Scott seems to have sensed this was.” The doctor looked at him appraisingly. “What did you feel during your conversation with Derek earlier, Stiles?”</p><p>                Stiles bit his lip. “Confusion, mostly. He was trying to explain some werewolf stuff to me, and I kept asking questions. I was trying to understand.” He recalled, then, the strange feeling he’d had near the end. “There was something weird. This, like, warmth in my chest. But then it turned into this, like, sad warmth? I can’t really explain it.”</p><p>                Scott and Deaton exchanged a look. “And now?” Deaton asked.</p><p>                Stiles shrugged. “Emptiness. That one’s easy to pin down, at least.”</p><p>                Scott breathed out forcefully and clasped both hands loosely in front of his forehead. “Shit,” he said. “Shit.”</p><p>                “What?” Stiles asked, his stomach dropping.</p><p>                Dr. Deaton sighed. “I agree with Scott. Have you ever had any interactions with Derek prior to today?”</p><p>                Stiles shook his head. “Not really, no. I mean, I’ve seen him here and there in passing.”</p><p>                Deaton hummed. “It is likely a collection of things that have caused this, Scott, but you need to be concerned yet. Go speak with Derek. I would like to speak with Mr. Stilinski here a little longer.”</p><p>                Stiles frowned. He was very tired of everyone dancing around him like he was fragile. “Enough of the cryptic bullshit,” he said, “What the fuck are you talking about?” The lights in the clinic flickered a few times, causing the three of them to look up at them. Deaton and Scott looked at Stiles cautiously.</p><p>                Scott averted his eyes. “I’ll go talk to Derek. See how he is. He’s probably freaking out.” He pushed out the door without another word.</p><p>                Stiles looked after Scott before turning to Deaton expectantly. “Well?”</p><p>                Deaton pinched the bridge of his nose. “It will take time to verify completely, but what you’ve described sounds like a mate bond.”</p><p>                Stiles’ brain short circuited. “I’m sorry did you say mate bond? Like. Lovers? Soulmates? Fucking ride off into the sunset kind of mate?” This could not be happening.</p><p>                “I’m afraid so,” Deaton said, “And it would appear that it formed nearly instantly, which should be impossible. And from the twinge of sadness you described, it would be safe to assume it’s already reached enough stability to allow some degree of emotional transference, which is troubling.”</p><p>                Stiles took a moment to soak that in. “Fuck. No wonder he freaked. We hardly know each other.” He sat in one of the waiting-room chairs nearby. “How the fuck did this happen?”</p><p>                Deaton sat in the chair beside him. “I would like to know that as well.” He looked down for a moment before returning his attention to Stiles. “This is a somewhat awkward question, but there’s no other way around it. Are you attracted to Derek?”</p><p>                Stiles blushed. “Yes,” he said. Anxiety crawled into his stomach, unsettling the paltry amount of food he’d been able to eat. It’s not that he was ashamed of it, but it was still embarrassing.</p><p>                Deaton nodded. “As I thought.” He quirked his head slightly. “Even though you have been unaware of the supernatural until now, Stiles, that does not mean that we haven’t been keeping an eye on you.” He paused. “Several years ago, I noticed something while you were in my clinic, something that I only bring up now because I believe it is relevant in regards to this situation.” He tapped a finger on the arm of the chair lightly. “You have a certain something in you, Stiles. A spark. If honed, it could allow you to affect change in the world around you. A touch of magic.”</p><p>                Stiles blinked at him. “Mag—magic?” He asked incredulously. “Honestly?”</p><p>                Deaton quirked his lips slightly. This was possibly the most emotive he’d ever seen the doctor. “You may not be able to move mountains, but with the proper application, you could come to perform amazing feats.”</p><p>                Stiles jiggled his leg. “You think that this, like, spark thing might be why the bond formed like it did?”</p><p>                Deaton quirked his lips again. “With how observant you are, I’m shocked the supernatural world stayed hidden from you for so long. But yes, I believe that your spark may have interacted both with your attraction to Derek, as well as your newly garnered knowledge of the existence of the supernatural to speed up a natural process that had just begun in that moment.” He sighed. “I apologize, Stiles, for not pursuing the subject of training further when I first told your father about this. If you had been at least more aware of the kinds of things you were capable of, the bond might have had a chance to develop without such influence.”</p><p>                “Wait, my dad knew about this? Fuck.” He ducked his head into his hands in front of him, wiping at his eyes. “Of course I’m the last to know I have fucking magic. Of course.”</p><p>                Deaton eyed him for a second. “I understand your father’s reluctance to induct you into this world, Stiles, and I hope that you can see it as well. You have to understand that the supernatural world is dangerous, and even more so for a human with access to magic. There are those who would abuse your power for their own benefit, and also those who would destroy you for it. Make no mistake. If you choose to wield your power, it will not come without risk.”</p><p>                “With great power comes great responsibility and all that, yeah.” He chewed his lip. “So this mate bond thing. Is it permanent?”</p><p>                Deaton nodded. “From what you’ve described, it may have solidified at the end of your interaction. Once a bond has solidified, there is no breaking it without serious consequences for both parties. I can help you slow down the rate at which the bond will form—back to a more natural rhythm—but no more. It is your choice whether you would like to pursue Derek or not, but understand this, Stiles. For Derek, there will never be another. You are human, so you will be able to fall in love again if you choose—though the emptiness of the bond will always exist within you. But for Derek, it will always be you. No one else.” He frowned slightly. “I’m sorry to put you in that position, but it is the one in which you find yourself. The bond will not continue to develop so long as the both of you remain apart, though, so you have time to think.”</p><p>                Stiles nodded solemnly. He took a couple of deep breaths and laughed. Funny that he’d had a panic attack when faced with his best friend showing off less-than-human traits, but finding out he had what was basically a soulmate? Just a bit of anxiety. No big deal. Honestly, the idea of him and Derek together eased the ache in his chest a little. The concept felt right in a way that kind of scared him. “So, what if we don’t stay away from each other?” He picked at the edge of the arm of the chair instead of looking at the doctor.</p><p>                Deaton paused for a moment. “You want to get to know him?”</p><p>                Stiles nodded. “It feels right, I guess.”</p><p>                “That would be the bond,” Deaton said. “I’m not going to lie to you. It could become rather intense for you both rather quickly. I would like to give you a little bit of training before you see each other again, if only to prevent any further accidental pushes.”</p><p>                “Okay,” Stiles said. “Maybe I should get his number from Scott or something and we can talk. I dunno.” He scratched the back of his head. “I feel kind of bad. Like I kind of forced him into it.”</p><p>                Deaton huffed. “Luckily for you both, bonds are mutual. You may have accelerated what had already begun, but it was there. I assure you that Derek is at the very least interested.”</p><p>                Stiles laughed. “Me? You sure I didn’t just, like, magic that up, too?”</p><p>                “That is something that would have required a lot more forethought and power than an instinctual reaction between a spark and a nascent bond, trust me.” He paused and smirked lightly. “Besides, Stiles. I like to think you’re better than that.”</p><p>                Stiles smiled lightly. “Thanks, Dr. D.”</p><p>                Deaton nodded. “I need to collect a few things before we continue. I’ll be right back.”</p><p>                With that, Deaton left the room. As he did, Stiles’ phone buzzed in his pocket. He had three texts. One was, oddly, from an unknown number. He first opened the new texts from Scott.</p><p> </p><p>                <strong>Scott 9:43 PM</strong></p><p>                Derek’s okay just surprised. Gave him your number so hope thats okay</p><p> </p><p>                <strong>Scott 9:43 PM</strong></p><p>                Dont be too hard on him hes a nice guy</p><p> </p><p>                Stiles sighed. Of course.</p><p> </p><p>                <strong>Me 9:44 PM</strong></p><p>                Thanks.</p><p> </p><p>                Next, he opened the new message from the unknown number. He rolled his eyes and created a new contact for it before actually reading the message.</p><p> </p><p>                <strong>Derek 9:42 PM</strong></p><p>                Sorry for leaving earlier. I’ll pay for the coffee table.</p><p> </p><p>                <strong>Me 9:45 PM</strong></p><p>                It’s fine. My dad’ll probably want to just fix it. No worries.</p><p> </p><p>                <strong>Me 9:46 PM</strong></p><p>                Sorry to freak you out. I guess I’m kind of to blame there.</p><p> </p><p>                <strong>Derek 9:47 PM</strong></p><p>                What’d Alan say?</p><p> </p><p>                <strong>Me 9:48 PM</strong></p><p>                Guess I have magic and it latched onto the innocent little bonds and forced them to smooch.</p><p> </p><p>                <strong>Derek 9:49 PM</strong></p><p>                Well shit.</p><p> </p><p>                <strong>Derek 9:49 PM</strong></p><p>                Not that I’m upset about bonding with you or anything. Just not what I expected today.</p><p> </p><p>                <strong>Me 9:50 PM</strong></p><p>                Yeah me neither. Didn’t even know it was a thing and all that.</p><p> </p><p>                <strong>Me 9:50 PM</strong></p><p>                Doc says we should stay away from each other until he can teach me a bit of control.</p><p> </p><p>                <strong>Me 9:51 PM</strong></p><p>                Try not to speed it up any more.</p><p> </p><p>                <strong>Derek 9:55 PM</strong></p><p>                Would it be tacky to ask you out right now?</p><p> </p><p>                Stiles blushed furiously down at his phone and closed his eyes. This had to be a dream, right? He was still in the hospital just after the incident dreaming some fanciful version of reality where werewolves were real and Derek freaking Hale asked out someone like him. He pinched himself, then counted his fingers. Nope, definitely awake. He bounced his leg a few times, then—without thinking much about it—hit “call.”</p><p>                It rang for a full fifteen seconds before Derek answered with a hesitant, “Hello?”</p><p>                Relief flooded Stiles’ body and he slumped into the chair. The emptiness that had been quietly gnawing in his chest lessened, and the hum of anxiety under his skin dulled. “What the fuck is with this bond thing? I feel so much better just hearing your voice. I hadn’t realized how wound up I was because of all this.”</p><p>                Derek huffed softly. “I know what you mean. I feel the same way. I think I remember that that’s normal with new mate bonds.”</p><p>                Stiles fidgeted in his seat. “Well, it sucks. Especially since I should really get Dr. D to show me some stuff before we even think about seeing each other again. Apparently it could get real intense real fast if I don’t get a handle on this magic thing.”</p><p>                “And that would be a bad thing because…?”</p><p>                “Because we hardly know each other. So we should probably, I don’t know, do that before we get werewolf married or whatever.”</p><p>                Derek laughed. The sound left Stiles feeling warm and content. “My wolf feels like we already do,” Derek said. “I was serious, though. We should hang out, have dinner, catch a movie. Something.”</p><p>                Stiles groaned. “I’ll see what Dr. D says. I’d like to avoid any further mishaps.” He bit his lip and toyed with a loose string at the hem of his shirt. “I’d like that, though. Maybe a double date with Scott and whoever he’s going out with right now. Make it, I don’t know, a little more casual since things seem to have escalated pretty quickly.”</p><p>                Derek huffed a laugh. “No kidding,” he said. “That sounds fun. We’ll make plans once we know you won’t blow up any local establishments.”</p><p>                Stiles rolled his eyes, but found himself smiling. “Fuck you, I would never—” He cut himself off. He wouldn’t, would he? “That’s not, like, a legitimate concern, is it? Because I’m not sure how comfortable I’d be with accidentally—”</p><p>                Derek’s bark of laughter was sudden enough to interrupt Stiles’ train of thought. God, he had a nice laugh. “I was kidding, Stiles.”</p><p>                Stiles blushed. “Work on your delivery, sourwolf. Not all of us are used to your particular brand of sarcasm.”</p><p>                “Sourwolf?”</p><p>                “Well, y’know. Like a sourpuss, but you’re not a cat. You’re a werewolf. Thus, sourwolf.”</p><p>                “Okay, but why?”</p><p>                “Every time I’ve seen you in public before today, you’ve had some sort of dour expression on your face—like, grumpy. I kind of made the assumption that that was an indicator of your personality. But still, if the shoe fits the face, throw the shoe.”</p><p>                Derek chuckled. “That makes no sense, but okay.”</p><p>                Stiles bit his lip. Deaton walked in, then, and raised an eyebrow. Stiles blushed. “I’ll talk to Deaton and see what he says. But ask me again before I go. Make it, like, more official or whatever.”</p><p>                “Ask you what?” Derek asked, faux innocence clear even to Stiles.</p><p>                “I will hang up on you,” he responded.</p><p>                “Okay, okay,” he said, voice still full of a joy that took Stiles’ breath away. He’d put that there. How could he have caused that sort of emotion in such a serious-looking man? “Stiles, would you like to go out with me?”</p><p>                Stiles was breathless. He closed his eyes and pinched himself again. “Absolutely,” he said before hanging up. He closed his eyes and bathed in the quiet warmth in his chest as it began to fade again.</p><p>               </p><p>*             *             *</p><p> </p><p>                Stiles was fairly familiar with the exam room of Dr. Deaton’s clinic—had been in here on countless occasions over the years—but he’d never seen the place quite like this. The place seemed littered with candles that lit the room in a faint, warm light. The electric lighting had been turned off, so it wasn’t exactly easy to see everything. There seemed to be some kind of circle with some kinds of runes drawn on a cleared space on the floor, where some kind of incense Stiles couldn’t identify was burning.</p><p>                “Please sit in the center of the circle,” Deaton said, indicating it with his hand.</p><p>                Stiles raised an eyebrow at the doctor. “Okay?” He did as asked, careful to step over the drawings so he didn’t disturb anything. “What’s all this?”</p><p>                Deaton picked up an unlit candle in a candle-holder from a counter nearby and brought it over to where Stiles was now sitting cross-legged. “Nothing that would mean anything to you at the moment.” He offered the candle out to Stiles, who took it and cradled it in his hands. “All you will need is the candle. The rest is to allow me to see how your magic works, exactly.”</p><p>                “Like a magical magnifying glass?”</p><p>                “More like a magical microscope. It will give any magic you try to do a visual form for me to interpret, and while you’re doing magic it will allow me to peer behind the curtain and ascertain the nature of the beast itself.”</p><p>                Stiles nodded. “Cool,” he said. “What do I do with the candle, then?”</p><p>                Deaton grabbed a stool from one of the nearby counters and set it down near the circle. “Simple. Light it.” He sat down.</p><p>                Stiles frowned. “What, no clue on how to do that, or—?”</p><p>                Deaton indicated the candle with an outstretched palm. “Light the candle.”</p><p>                “Okay, then,” he said. Trying to ignore his audience, Stiles furrowed his brow and stared intently at the candle. “Okay, little candle,” he said to it, “Just go ahead and spark it up for me, will ya?” He shifted a few times, turned his head every way he could think of, brought his index and middle fingers up to his forehead and concentrated. Nothing he tried seemed to be working. His heart sunk to the bottom of his stomach. Maybe he couldn’t do this. Maybe Deaton had gotten it wrong. Or maybe Stiles had fucked it up somehow—broken himself in more ways than even he had known about. Maybe he was always meant to be a disappointment.</p><p>                “Doubting yourself now would be counterproductive, Stiles,” Deaton said.</p><p>                Stiles scowled and looked up at him. “Are you a mind-reader?”</p><p>                Deaton raised an eyebrow half an inch. “You and Scott have been coming into my clinic for how long, exactly?”</p><p>                Stiles frowned and nodded approvingly. “Point,” he said. He chewed the back of his bottom lip. “I guess I’m just worried I can’t do it.”</p><p>                “Then you won’t be able to.”</p><p>                “That just sounds like a roundabout way to say ‘believe in yourself.’ What is this, a Disney movie?” He shook his head and tried to concentrate again. It’d always been hard to concentrate on one thing for too long—unless it particularly interested him, of course—but trying to focus on the candle was excruciating. After what felt like an hour—but which was probably only a minute—Stiles groaned and rolled his head. “ADHD and magic don’t seem to mix very well, doc.” He set the candle down in front of him and rubbed at his eyes. He needed this candle to light already so he could go home and sleep. It had been a long, weird day. “It’d be much easier if I could just snap my fingers—” He snapped. “And have it happen.”</p><p>                Lights began to dance up above him suddenly, and Deaton gave Stiles the barest hint of a smirk. “Perhaps that’s all that was necessary,” he said.</p><p>                Stiles let his mouth fall open as he looked up and watched the dancing lights above him. He couldn’t make heads or tails of anything, but it was pretty. There were lines, wisps, and streaks of color dancing and moving in the air above him. “What the hell?” He said absently. He looked down at the candle to find it lit and softly flickering. He gaped at it. “Did I do that?”</p><p>                Deaton ignored him, watching the lights with barely disguised interest. “Fascinating,” he said. “Your magic appears to be tied intimately to will and intent—which is to be expected—but in a manner I’ve not seen very often.”</p><p>                “Meaning?”</p><p>                Deaton made a motion towards the lights still dancing above him. “This is a sort of time-lapse,” he said, “A peek into everything going on at the exact time that you lit the candle using magic.” He shook his head. “I would have expected a few wisps, maybe a streak. But this?” He huffed. “It’s a Jackson Pollock painting.”</p><p>                “Wait,” he said, “Back up. So does that mean I have more magic than you thought I would? Is that even a thing that can be quantified by the word ‘more?’”</p><p>                Deaton shrugged tightly. “In a sense. Think of it like a battery. You simply have more reserves than I had been expecting. This isn’t a bad thing, necessarily. But it certainly explains why the bond was affected in the way that it was.” He stood up and walked over to the counter by the sink, where a couple of washcloths sat. “All magic is in some way an extension of a person’s will—their desire to change something about the world in some way. Whether that is for good or for ill doesn’t matter, it is the person’s motivations that fuel the magic.” He grabbed a washcloth and wet it some before moving back to Stiles. “Here, scrub for me, please. I’ll grab another washcloth.” Stiles did as asked and started cleaning up the circle, but kept listening. “Doing magic requires belief in what you’re doing—that’s why you don’t see sorority houses going up in flames left and right. Belief is the catalyst by which magic is able to take root. Regardless, magic usually requires some kind of medium to accomplish that task—some use runes, some use charms, some use incantations—but it would seem that for you, your body itself is the medium.” He grabbed his own washcloth and returned to the circle before beginning to scrub at the other side from where Stiles was working. “Most practitioners can do this, of course, provided the right kind of training and knowledge. But from what I could see, it would seem that that is where you will thrive in your magical endeavors—the use of the body as an instrument for the change that magic can enact.”</p><p>                Stiles nodded and chewed on that for a minute, scrubbing quietly as he did so. “Couldn’t that be dangerous, though? Like, couldn’t my body get overloaded by the amount of magic if I used a lot of it at once or something?”</p><p>                Deaton nodded. “Easily so, I’m afraid. So you will have to be more careful in your practices than most other magic users in the world. Just because you have the extra ‘battery,’ so to speak, does not mean that your body will be able to handle using the entire thing at once.”</p><p>                Stiles snorted. “Because of course.” They had finished clearing the circle from the floor, so Stiles got up and brought the washcloth over to the sink. “Will I still be able to do stuff with, like, runes and whatever?” He waved a hand towards where the circle had just been.</p><p>                “Given study and practice,” Deaton said. “It won’t come as easily to you as using your body itself as the conduit. Though they tend to be safer in the long run.” They both washed their hands at the sink. “I don’t have any in the clinic, for obvious reasons, but I will gather several books I would like you to read and deliver them to your house.”</p><p>                “Homework?” He asked incredulously. “Man, I thought I was done with that forever.”</p><p>                Deaton shrugged. “It will be helpful for you. In the meantime, I would advise you to be mindful of how you’re feeling and what you’re doing. Your magic is not yet honed, and as such could be volatile if you do not find a way to practice restraint. You have dealt with panic attacks before, yes?”</p><p>                Stiles shrugged and nodded. “You do know where I was for the past year, right?”</p><p>                Deaton gave him a pointed look. “You may find, in the future, that times of emotional upheaval tend to make you lash out unintentionally with your magic. Now that it seems to be waking up, so to speak, you will find that things will start happening when you get particularly upset. Find yourself some sort of anchor—something to keep you grounded in moments and feelings that threaten to overwhelm. It is not as vital to your supernatural activities as it may be for something like a werewolf, for instance, but you may find such a thing helpful.”</p><p>                Stiles nodded and rubbed his hands together. Directions. He could follow directions. “What about the bond stuff?”</p><p>                “I intend to craft a sort of charm for each of you to wear that should prevent your magic from latching onto the bond. After that, we can discuss a more long-term solution. I would instruct you to learn to calm yourself while in Derek’s presence, but from what I understand, mate bonds are not something that you can simply ‘turn off.’” He eyed Stiles. “And if I know you, you’ll hardly be able to contain yourself regardless.”</p><p>                Stiles scoffed. “I could!”</p><p>                Deaton smirked slightly and began to lead them towards the front of the clinic. “Think on what I have told you Stiles. I will try to have the charms ready for you both by tomorrow night. Try to be good until then.”</p><p>                Stiles followed after the doctor. “I’m always good,” he said.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Suicide- There are veiled mentions of Stiles' past suicide attempt during his discussions with Deaton. </p><p>Anxiety and Depression- There are allusions and descriptions of both throughout. At one point, during his one-on-one conversation with Deaton, Stiles expresses self-doubt and spirals a bit.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Potential trigger brief in end notes. If I missed anything, let me know!<br/>Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>                As Stiles stepped out of the clinic with Deaton, he was met with a loud honk from a car he recognized as Lydia’s. He jumped a bit and placed a hand on his chest as Lydia and Allison waved and laughed from the front seats. “Yeah, ha ha, very funny,” he said, voice raised so they could hear him.</p><p>                Deaton walked up beside him. “One last thing before you go,” he said. “While I understand the desire to experiment with your new abilities, I would urge you to use caution and as much restraint as you can manage. You may have a larger pool of magic than I was expecting, but that doesn’t mean that your body is ready to channel that much energy at once. Find your anchor before any attempts to harness your gift, or you may find yourself lost in a storm.”</p><p>                Stiles waved him off and headed towards the car. “I’ll be careful, Doc, don’t worry.” He turned slightly to wave back at Deaton before opening the door to get in behind Allison in the passenger seat.</p><p>                “Hey, Stiles,” Allison said warmly, turning her head. “Scott texted us to come pick you up.”</p><p>                Lydia raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “He’s indisposed dealing with a certain broody werewolf that you seem to have broken.” She gave him a clinical once over that made Stiles more than a little uncomfortable. “You seem to have recovered from the shock of it all, at least.”</p><p>                Stiles twitched a brief smile. “Yeah,” he said, suddenly incredibly nervous to be in the same car as two of the most intimidating women he’d ever known. He cleared his throat. “Thanks for the help, by the way, Lydia.”</p><p>                She offered him a genuine smile as she started driving, her lip-gloss shining in the pale light of the moon overhead. “Don’t mention it.”</p><p>                Stiles looked down at his hands and fidgeted. “I am beat,” he said. “Today has been crazy.” He flicked his eyes between the two in front of him. “Are you two, like—I’m not sure how to say this without sounding incredibly insensitive—but are you two, like—” He gulped. “Human?”</p><p>                Allison smiled as she turned to Lydia as they gave each other a look he couldn’t interpret. “We’re both human, Stiles,” she said, a glint in her eye, “Mostly.”</p><p>                Stiles’ eyebrows shot straight towards his hairline. “Mostly?” He squeaked.</p><p>                Lydia and Allison both laughed. “To be fair, we’re both entirely human,” Lydia said. “We just have a little extra.” She flicked her eyes to the rearview mirror to look at Stiles as she continued to drive. “I’m a Banshee,” she explained, “Which is like a supernatural doom detector.”</p><p>                “And I come from a family of werewolf hunters,” Allison said. “Though I am currently mate-bonded to one.” She cleared her throat. “Scott.”</p><p>                Stiles let out a large breath. “Wow,” was all he could think to say. “Wait,” he said, grabbing the back of Allison’s seat and pulling himself forward slightly, “You and Scott are back together?”</p><p>                “Kind of,” Allison said. “It’s complicated.” She bit her lip. “He said you and Derek…?”</p><p>                Stiles blushed. Damn he had to get his physiological responses under control. He fake-coughed into his hand. “Yeah. Seems like it.”</p><p>                Lydia quirked her head and locked eyes with Stiles in the rearview mirror. “I had no idea you were into guys. Let alone dating one.”</p><p>                Stiles locked his jaw. “I’m not,” he said. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to be mad at them for not knowing him. “Apparently I’m magical, or something.” He chanced a glance at Lydia. “And I came out, like, six months ago.”</p><p>                Both Lydia and Allison tensed at the implication that it had happened while he was away. He forced himself to look out the window. Lydia recovered quickly, though. “We appreciate you trusting us with this part of your life, Stiles. I’m glad you feel comfortable enough with us to share that you’re…?”</p><p>                “Bi,” he said simply, still looking out the window at the passing trees and houses.</p><p>                “Bi,” Lydia finished. The three of them sat in tense silence for a minute while Stiles tried very hard to bore a hole into the window with his eyes. Maybe he could do that with magic, now, actually.</p><p>                Allison broke the silence. “Wait,” she said, brow furrowed. “You said you weren’t dating Derek. How did a mate bond form, then? That should take at least a year.”</p><p>                Stiles did half-hearted jazz hands. “Magic,” he said. “Apparently I was so into him, my magic just took the reigns and formed it immediately.”</p><p>                Allison raised her eyebrows, while Lydia looked pensive. “Wow,” Allison said. “Are you okay?”</p><p>                Stiles shrugged. “I mean. It’s been kind of a weird day overall.” He put his hand out and started listing things off with his fingers. “First, I find out the supernatural exists, and both my best friend and my father are not only involved with it, but have been keeping it from me for years. Next, I learn that not only do I have magic, but it’s something other people have known about for a while. Then, I find out I have what basically amounts to a soulmate, and that I’m the reason that it happened as quick as it did.” He huffed. “Yeah, I’m peachy.”</p><p>                The car settled into a din of silence. Thankfully, not long after that, Lydia pulled to a stop by the curb in front of the Stilinski house. Lydia cleared her throat. “If you have any questions, or want to talk or anything, just text either of us, okay?”</p><p>                Stiles huffed a small laugh. “I don’t have your numbers,” he said. He chewed on his bottom lip. “But thanks.” He chanced a glance as he pulled on the handle to get out. “Thanks for the ride.”</p><p>                Lydia and Allison waved stiltedly as he shut the door and made his way to the house. As he made his way inside, he was hit by a wave of exhaustion. Nobody was home, so he dragged himself up the stairs and down the hall to his room. He threw himself down onto his bed, and—too tired to even change out of his clothes—drifted off to sleep.</p><p> </p><p>*             *             *</p><p> </p><p>                Stiles laughed as Derek kissed softly at the crook of his neck. “You’re such a tease,” he said lightly, but the joy underneath was inarguable. Derek smirked and nipped lightly at Stiles’ collarbone. Stiles grasped at the pale blue sheets on his childhood bed.</p><p>                “You like it,” Derek said, voice soft, but husky.</p><p>                Stiles grinned and licked his lips, an action that Derek traced with his gorgeous eyes. “No, I don’t,” Stiles said.</p><p>                Derek grumbled. “Lie.” He ghosted his lips lightly across Stiles’ bare chest before peppering gentle, languid kisses along the soft skin. Stiles groaned happily.</p><p>                Stiles closed his eyes and moaned, a stupid smile still plastered to his face. “Cheater,” he said. Soft light pierced Stiles’ bedroom window and highlighted Derek’s hair in a way that made him look angelic.</p><p>                Derek rolled the both of them over suddenly, and Stiles was leaning over Derek on top of different sheets—these ones dark blue. Stiles’ hands ghosted over the smooth, hard muscles of Derek’s torso while the other man looked up at him in something that could only be described as reverence.</p><p>                “You know,” Stiles said, “I’m a little surprised we made it up here this time. It’s not like we haven’t had sex on every other surface in this place.”</p><p>                Derek smiled softly and shrugged. “I like waking up next to you.”</p><p>                Stiles smacked Derek’s muscular chest lightly. “Sap,” he said.</p><p>                Derek flipped them over yet again, landing on the couch in the Stilinski’s living room. Stiles laughed. “God,” Stiles said, “My dad would kill us if he caught us making out on my grandma’s couch.”</p><p>                Derek gave him a pointed look. “Like he hasn’t caught us making out before.”</p><p>                “Granted, but we don’t want to scar the poor man too much.”</p><p>                Derek chuckled and they flipped again and rolled into soft grass filled with wildflowers. Stiles watched a few flowers dance in the breeze as Derek stared at Stiles’ face with what could only be described as love. Derek took Stiles’ neck in his hands—gently, always gently—and pulled him into a soft, sweet kiss that left Stiles breathless.</p><p> </p><p>*             *             *</p><p> </p><p>                Stiles woke up on the floor, tangled in his comforter. He allowed himself a moment to bask in the warmth that his dreams had left him. It wasn’t often that he had pleasant dreams anymore. He hoped distantly that it would happen again. Especially if it was anything like what his subconscious had come up with last night. He’d have to hang on to that particular dream sequence for later.</p><p>                It wasn’t long before the soreness of having slept wonky started to creep in on whatever bliss remained from the dream. He groaned and blearily tried to extract himself from the mess. He must have been rolling around alongside his dreams the previous night, because he definitely remembered making it to his bed.  He yawned as he freed himself from the steel-trap grip of the comforter, but flailed dangerously backward when he noticed he wasn’t alone.</p><p>                The man standing by Stiles’ open window seemed to be older than Derek, but younger than the Sheriff. He was fit, with styled dark hair and a self-satisfied smirk on his face. He looked a little like Derek, honestly, but his eyes betrayed that this man was an Alpha—the piercing red glow burrowing into Stiles’ head. The man quirked his head and an amused smile played on his lips. He held a hand out in front of his face and shifted the hands into claws before putting one claw in front of his lips without making a sound.</p><p>                Stiles’ heartbeat thumped in his chest and an unpleasant hum sang under his skin. He was defenseless here, had no way of reaching any of the werewolves he now knew in time. He grasped for something to say, but for once found himself speechless.</p><p>                The man tilted his head curiously at Stiles and smirked before ducking out of the window, silently disappearing from the room.</p><p>                A knock sounded at Stiles’ door, making him jump. His dad popped his head in and flicked his gaze from the bed to the crumpled mess containing his son on the floor. “Everything okay?”</p><p>                Stiles brought a finger to his lips and shoved himself out of the blanket pile. He moved over to the window before shutting it and locking it. “There was a werewolf in my room just now,” he said, slightly panicked. “He had red eyes.”</p><p>                The Sheriff opened the door fully and strode over to the window. He glanced out at every angle he could. “Why would an Alpha want to mess with you?” He pulled his phone out and started scrolling through the contacts. “I swear, kid. One day with the supernatural and you’re already in the middle of it.” He pressed “call” on one of his contacts and put it on speakerphone.</p><p>                Stiles rolled his eyes and was about to protest when Derek’s voice filtered through the tinny speakers. “Noah, did something happen? Is Stiles okay?”</p><p>                Stiles tried to speak, but his dad shushed him. “Stiles is fine, but he woke up to a werewolf in his room. Said it had red eyes.”</p><p>                “An Alpha?” Derek asked incredulously. “The pack’s strong enough now that an Alpha being on our territory unannounced is almost a declaration of war. No self-respecting Alpha would do that unless they had some sort of agenda.” A few soft whooshes sounded from the other end of the line, like the shuffling of papers. “Is Stiles there?”</p><p>                Stiles’ chest warmed slightly. “Yeah, I’m here,” he said. He scratched the back of his head and tried to avoid his dad’s gaze.</p><p>                “Could you describe the Alpha for me?”</p><p>                Stiles nodded even though Derek couldn’t see him. “Uh—He had dark hair. Fit. Looked pretty put-together. Looked kind of smug.” He bit his lip. “Looked like he could have been related to you, to be honest.”</p><p>                The ruffling stopped. For a long moment, nobody said anything. Stiles chanced a look up at his dad, who had his brow furrowed. “Hold on,” Derek said. “I’m gonna send you a picture. Tell me if this is him, okay?”</p><p>                A few moments later, his dad’s phone made a “ping” sound. Rather than let his dad fiddle with it, Stiles grabbed the phone and expertly navigated to the nearly-nonexistent text chain between Derek and the Sheriff. The photo Derek had sent seemed to be something in a picture frame, taken using the phone’s camera. The photo portrayed Derek and a younger dark-haired woman that Stiles recognized as Derek’s cousin Malia. He’d met her a few times in high school when she hung out with Scott and the others a few times. He’d always thought she was gorgeous, though that wasn’t all that surprising given who she was related to.</p><p>                Behind the two stunning people in the forefront of the picture stood the man that had been in Stiles’ room earlier, arms slung carelessly around the both of them. It made Stiles almost queasy. “Yeah,” he said, “That’s him.”</p><p>                The Sheriff looked over Stiles’ shoulder at the photo. “Wait, I thought your uncle lost the Alpha power after you killed him.”</p><p>                Stiles snapped his attention to his dad. “I’m sorry, what?”</p><p>                The Sheriff waved him off. “It’s fine, he lived. I thought Peter and Malia were doing that road-trip this summer. What’s he doing in Beacon Hills?” Stiles frowned.</p><p>                Derek huffed. “I don’t know what you saw, Stiles, but it wasn’t Peter. I just texted Malia, and she says he’s sitting right next to her in some coffee shop in Seattle.”</p><p>                Stiles frowned. “I definitely saw that guy standing like a creeper in my room this morning.” He turned to his dad. “Seriously, the dude was watching me sleep or something.”</p><p>                Derek hummed. “Maybe it was some kind of shifter who can take on other people’s appearances? Or maybe magic?”</p><p>                The Sheriff nodded. “I’ll have Parrish keep an eye out, but we might be dealing with something on top of the Omega.”</p><p>                “I’ll have Lydia see what she can dig up about magic or shifters who can copy other people’s faces,” Derek said. “In the meantime, Stiles shouldn’t be alone. I don’t like that this thing’s showing an interest.”</p><p>                Stiles sighed. “I really don’t want to spend all day at the station. Can someone just come here?”</p><p>                “Why don’t you come over to the loft?” Derek said. “Lydia can pick you up on her way.”</p><p>                The Sheriff nodded. “I like that better anyway. The department’s not exactly known for its supernatural defense.” He clapped Stiles on the shoulder. “I’m gonna go get ready. Just set my phone on the counter downstairs after you’re done making plans.”</p><p>                Stiles furrowed his brow at his father’s back as he left the room. “Do I not get a say in any of this?”</p><p>                The other line was silent for a few moments. “Sorry,” Derek said. “I can just have someone stay there with you if you’d prefer.”</p><p>                Stiles sighed and ran a hand down his face. “Let’s hope Deaton put in the express order on those charms. And you’re buying me lunch.”</p><p>                Derek huffed. “Deal,” he said. “I’ll call Lydia and Deaton. See about the charms. See you in a bit.”</p><p>                Stiles rolled his eyes but smiled regardless. “Alright, see ya.” He hung up.</p><p>                Stiles went through a hastened version of his morning routine—without the shower, though he might be able to take a quick one before Lydia got there—and was slurping up a sad bowl of Cheerios as his dad plopped down the stairs in uniform. “Be good today, kid,” he said as he came over and ruffled Stiles’ hair.</p><p>                “No promises,” he said as he studied the back of the Cheerio’s box.</p><p>                His dad chuckled as he filled a thermos with coffee. “By the way,” he said. “What happened last night after Derek got here?”</p><p>                Stiles rolled his eyes. “Not much. I asked questions, he answered questions, I found out I have magic, nothing huge.”</p><p>                His dad dropped the coffee pot on the counter with a heavy clunk. “What?”</p><p>                Stiles turned around to face his dad, whose face was dumbstruck. “Yeah. Deaton told me.”</p><p>                His dad wiped a hand down his face and scowled. “I told him not to. Several times.” He mumbled something about “damn druids” as he continued what he’d been doing. “How the hell did this come up?”</p><p>                Stiles bit his lip and looked away. “Right. Well. Derek and I are kind of—um. Basically—” He rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. “Werewolf soulmates?” He pushed his shoulders up and grimaced. “Magic came up cause that’s what made it happen so quick.” He turned back around and took a quick bite of cereal.</p><p>                His father said nothing, but moved until he was standing behind the chair across from him. He put a hand on the back of the chair and lifted his other hand as if to say something. He breathed out heavily. “You and Derek?” He finally managed.</p><p>                Stiles flushed and nodded curtly. “Problem?”</p><p>                His dad rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. “No, no problem. You know the guy thing doesn’t bother me. I guess I’m just—” He pushed out another breath. “Surprised.”</p><p>                Stiles laughed briefly. “You and me both, dad.” He snorted. “I mean. Twenty-four hours ago I had no idea any of this was even, like, a thing.”</p><p>                His dad sighed. “Look, kid,” he said heavily, “I don’t know anything about any soulmate business. But I need you to be careful. A lot more than your heart can get hurt with this guy.”</p><p>                Stiles rolled his eyes. “If it’s not the guy thing, is it the werewolf thing? Are you being species-ist right now?”</p><p>                His dad shrugged exaggeratedly. “What? They’re supernatural creatures. They can be dangerous sometimes.” He gave Stiles a pointed look. “Please remind him that Chris Argent supplies me with wolfsbane bullets, and I’m not afraid to break ‘em out.”</p><p>                Stiles spluttered. “Dad, we haven’t even been on a single date yet. I think the shovel talk can wait.” He waved his arm wildly in front of him. “Or the wolfsbane bullet talk. Whatever.”</p><p>                His dad shook his head fondly. “Either way, I expect you to be home before dark tonight. Scott can sleep over, if nothing else. But no Derek sleepovers.”</p><p>                “Dad!” Stiles protested. “Jesus, come on.”</p><p>                His dad nodded smugly at him. “Just because of how insistent you are at giving me heart attacks today, I’m grabbing breakfast from the diner.”</p><p>                “Dad! Seriously? That place is a health hazard!” His dad chuckled softly as he made his way to the front door. “You better not order any sausage!” He called after the Sheriff as he strode out the door. “I have my sources!”</p><p>                The door clicked closed and Stiles couldn’t help but feel warm at the familiarity of the conversation. It was probably the first time in a long time that he felt like things might be able to get back to some semblance of normal after all.</p><p>               </p><p>*             *             *</p><p> </p><p>                Stiles was able to squeeze a shower in before Lydia arrived. She knocked on the door as primly as Stiles would have imagined, and before he could even get the door fully open, she power-walked into the house and straight past him. “Good morning to you, too, Lydia,” he said as he closed the door again. “Please tell me Deaton was able to get the charms done.” He shook his head. “And that is not a sentence I would have ever expected to make sense ever.”</p><p>                Lydia seemed to ignore him as she peeked around the main floor, one eyebrow cocked and gaze determinately calculating. “Not what I would have expected,” she said simply, “But not entirely surprising either.” She turned abruptly to him. “Charms are a no-go for at least a few more hours. Derek’s patrolling until that time. Deaton knows where you’ll be, and I have the books he intended for you in my car already.” She lifted a single perfectly manicured eyebrow, her lips pursed. “Shall we?”</p><p>                “Uh—” Stiles managed before she strut past him, her heels clacking against the hard-wood floors. She was out the door before Stiles’ brain had even caught up. He shook his head and sprung out the door as fast as he could.</p><p>                One extremely awkward car ride later, Stiles couldn’t help but marvel at the large industrial-style apartment building Lydia had driven them to downtown. Derek’s Camaro was parked outside, alongside Scott’s motorcycle and a few cars he wasn’t as familiar with. Stiles grabbed the stack of books that Lydia had pointed out in the back seat before leading him towards the building.</p><p>                It was old, but seemed to have been refurbished rather recently. The steel, concrete, and glass structure looked intimidating. “Derek owns the building,” Lydia said, falling into step beside him as he caught up. “A few people in the pack have apartments here. It seemed a good central location for pack meetings.”</p><p>                Stiles nodded, still gaping up at the tall structure. “Let me guess,” he said, “Derek’s loft is near the top.”</p><p>                Lydia quirked her head. “That shouldn’t be surprising. Doesn’t he strike you as more of a top kind of guy?” Stiles spluttered and blushed, and Lydia smirked in victory. “That’s what I thought,” she said, brushing past him. Stiles shook his head—still blushing—and followed.</p><p>                After entering the building, they quickly found a cage elevator that Lydia indicated near the entrance. “Express to the loft,” she explained. The ride was a tad bumpy—it made Stiles a little queasy, actually—but before long they found themselves in the small hallway that led to the heavy door of Derek’s loft.</p><p>                A familiar hum started under Stiles’ skin, and he gulped. He wasn’t entirely prepared to see Derek’s personal space. Especially knowing that the man in question would be gone. It almost felt like intruding, even knowing that the rest of the pack would be there. Lydia didn’t even knock before sliding the unlocked door open.</p><p>                The main room of the loft was large, with huge windows nearly covering the far wall. The large window that seemed the focal point of the room had a large table in front of it with various books and papers spread out over it, chairs pushed haphazardly around it. In the center of the room was a large couch facing the left-hand wall, which sported a low entertainment center, a glass-top coffee table, and flat-screen TV. To the right was a large dining table that looked a lot neater than Stiles would have expected from a pack of werewolves. Around the corner to the right Stiles peeked to find an open-concept kitchen, separated from the main space only by a bar with three barstools. A metal spiral staircase in the far left-hand corner of the room indicated there was perhaps a bit more to the space, but Stiles doubted he’d get the full tour quite yet.</p><p>                Scott and Allison talked in hushed tones at the table, while two people Stiles didn’t know were clad in pajamas at the bar. Nearest the door was a slim girl with long reddish-brown hair, brown eyes, and who was incredibly pretty. Stiles was beginning to suspect that attractiveness was just kind of a given with the supernatural. Sitting next to her was a tall, cute boy with dark, curly blond hair, blue eyes, and looked even more like a personification of a puppy than even Scott. The boy looked vaguely familiar, but Stiles couldn’t really place it.</p><p>                As soon as the people in the room noticed that someone had come in, they all looked his way. Scott and Allison smiled genuinely, while the two at the bar gave him polite smiles before continuing with their breakfast. Lydia strode immediately towards Allison and Scott, and Stiles stood awkwardly for a second, unsure of what to do.</p><p>                Scott tore himself away from Allison and Lydia, making his way around the room and towards Stiles. “Hey, bro,” he said, offering up a bro-hug.</p><p>                Stiles took it, like it was second nature still. “Hey,” he said. “Derek tell you about the creepy shifter thing this morning?”</p><p>                “Yeah. I’m a little worried, honestly. But Lydia and Allison have some ideas on where to start looking.” He pursed his lips lightly. “Wanna help, or are you gonna do—” He indicated the books. “That.”</p><p>                Stiles shrugged. “Whatever you need me to do, Scotty.” He frowned slightly and looked around. “Wait,” he said. “Didn’t you guys bring that thing back here last night?”</p><p>                “Oh yeah. The Omega. He’s in the utility room. Derek had it sound-proofed so we could keep stuff in there if we needed to.”</p><p>                Stiles frowned. “You guys have used that word a few times. What’s an Omega?”</p><p>                “An Omega is a werewolf without a pack,” the pretty girl answered from the bar. She looked him up and down. “You must be Stiles.”</p><p>                Stiles raised a hand in greeting. “Yep, that’s me.” He stepped on his tippy toes and fell back onto the soles of his feet. “You guys are…?”</p><p>                “Cora,” the girl said simply. “I think we met once or twice. I’m Derek’s sister.”</p><p>                Stiles raised his eyebrows and jutted his head forward. “Sister? O—oh.” He’d thought that all of the Hales except Derek had died in the fire or something. He coughed. “Nice to—um—meet you.”</p><p>                Cora quirked her head and smirked before turning back to the bar. “Cute and awkward. My brother’s a goner.” She chuckled lightly towards the boy next to her, who smirked as well.</p><p>                The curly-haired boy turned. “I’m Isaac,” he said. “Erica and Boyd won’t be up anytime soon. They decided it was a good idea to have a sex marathon today.”</p><p>                Cora snorted. “At least while we’re up here we won’t have to hear it. Though if they show up at some point today we’ll have to smell it.” She hopped up off the stool and strode into the kitchen with her plate.</p><p>                Isaac grimaced. “Worst part about being a werewolf, I swear.”</p><p>                Stiles laughed. “So you guys are all…?” He pointed at Scott, Isaac, and Cora as she came back into the main room.</p><p>                Scott pat his shoulder. “Get used to it, buddy.”</p><p>                Stiles frowned, but shook his head. “Okay. Do you need help researching the shifter thing that was watching me like a creeper this morning, or can I do my magic homework?”</p><p>                Lydia looked up from where she was thumbing through an ancient looking tome. “Allison and I should be good. Do your—” She wiggled her fingers. “Magic thing.”</p><p>                Scott pat his shoulder and made his way back to Allison and Lydia. Stiles nodded. “Cool. Cool. I guess I’ll just—” He turned to both groups of people—neither of whom were paying any attention to him—and huffed. Of course nobody needed him. He shook his head, mood already souring, and headed for the couch.</p><p>                He set the books Deaton had lent him on the coffee table beside a chess set with pieces styled after animals and sat down at the end nearest the door. He tapped on his knee a couple of times and jiggled his leg. Deaton had told him to think about anchors first, so he wanted to get that done before even cracking any of the books open. Could even be necessary if the books were frustrating enough.</p><p>                Anchors kept things steady. They were unmoving—something solid to tether yourself to—to keep you from blowing off course and breaking apart in the waves of a storm. He hadn’t had a lot of things in his life that were like that. Friendships had come and gone, interests had oscillated wildly when anything remotely interested him, and even lacrosse had been a temporary energy outlet until he’d quit senior year—mostly because of Scott, if he was being honest. Even his parents couldn’t really be seen as stable. He’d lost his mother when he was a kid, and his dad had been lying to him for years. What could he count on? Thinking about it all was leaving him feeling a little unmoored. Adrift.</p><p>                “Stiles?” Lydia said from the other end of the couch. He startled a bit. He hadn’t even noticed she’d moved there. “Are you okay?”</p><p>                Stiles blinked and looked around. The lights were flickering. They hadn’t been on a minute ago, had they? Scott and Allison were watching him with concern etched into their faces. Cora watched him curiously from by the door. Clinking sounded from the kitchen, so there was at least one person who wasn’t watching him like a hawk. Or a wolf. Whatever.</p><p>                He shook his head. “Sorry,” he said. He took a few deep breaths. The flickering stopped. “Was that me?”</p><p>                Lydia smiled apologetically. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Can I help?”</p><p>                He huffed a laugh. “I don’t know. Just struggling with part of the homework.” He wiped at his eyes, where a few traitorous tears had leaked out without his realizing.</p><p>                Lydia shot a look at the other people in the room and Stiles bristled a little at their stilted attempts to get back to what they were doing. “What do you got?” Lydia asked, her voice cheerful, but slightly wobbly.</p><p>                Stiles sighed and swiped a hand through his hair. “Deaton wants me to find an anchor—something to, like, keep me steady if my magic gets out of control.”</p><p>                Lydia nodded. “I’ve read about it a little. Werewolves use the concept to keep their wolf side in check. I suppose it would be similar with magic. Strong emotions are often associated with lack of control in a lot of fiction, after all. So it makes sense that there’d be some grain of truth to it.” She hummed and sucked on her bottom lip. “Some people use a person or people as their anchor. Scott’s is Allison, for example. Some people use something more conceptual, like an emotion they feel fairly frequently. That may not work if your abilities are affected by strong emotions, though.”</p><p>                Stiles nodded. “That’s the problem I keep running into. I can’t think of anything that’s been—been sturdy in my life. Solid.”</p><p>                Lydia quirked her head. “Then don’t use anything like that right now. If nothing like that exists for you, looking for it will only upset you.” She tapped one manicured finger on the couch’s arm. She slipped her gaze over various objects in the vicinity before landing on the chess board on the coffee table. She pursed her lips with a hint of a smile, plucked one of the pieces from the board, and held it out. “The knight,” she said. “Perhaps a physical object will suffice.”</p><p>                Stiles took the piece she had offered him and examined it. The piece was wooden and slightly worn—obviously having been used a fair number of times over the years. The most striking thing about it, though, was that it resembled the head of a wolf. Stiles chuckled at how appropriate it was. “Surrounded by wolves,” he remarked. “You sure Derek won’t be mad I use it?”</p><p>                “Unlikely,” she said, “I’ve never seen him even use the thing.”</p><p>                Stiles frowned at it, but shrugged. “Thanks, Lyds.” He paused. “Lydia.” Why had he used that nickname? They definitely weren’t close enough for that.</p><p>                She smiled softly. “No problem.” She flattened her skirt and stood up. “If you need any help with the material, let me know. I’m likely familiar with a lot of the concepts.” With that, she sauntered back over to Scott and Allison.</p><p>                Stiles huffed and fiddled with the chess piece a little before pocketing it. It would do for now. He grabbed the first book from the stack on the coffee table—a leather-bound tome with yellowing pages—and flipped it open. It appeared to be a jargon-heavy book about the nature of magic. Stiles frowned. He wasn’t necessarily surprised, but he would have much preferred something like “Magic for Dummies.”</p><p> </p><p>*             *             *</p><p>                The book was dry and headache-inducing, to say the least. But Stiles powered through it as much as he could. A lot of the material was interesting enough—if not presented in the best of ways—and was exciting him about the prospects of playing around with his newly discovered gift. The book discussed various theories surrounding the source of magic—everything from linking it to human concepts of ether and soul to postulating its source to be related to some kind of primordial deity. There were even some later-added footnotes stuck in the margins on sticky notes in handwriting that looked suspiciously like Lydia’s suggesting that some newer human concepts—like dark energy—might have merit as avenues of further research.</p><p>                It was all fascinating stuff, but Stiles found his eyelids drooping more than once. About halfway through the book he set it down and stood up to stretch. He shook his head to wake himself up a little before looking around the room. At some point, Cora and Isaac had left, it seemed. He had been so engrossed in the book he hadn’t even noticed. Or maybe werewolves were just sneaky. After all, he hadn’t heard the guy that looked like Derek’s uncle entering his room. Or exiting it, for that matter.</p><p>                Allison, Lydia, and Scott were still pouring over various notes and books spread out around the table nearby. They didn’t seem to be paying him any mind, so he started wandering around the loft. The place was kept immaculately clean—if Derek owned the building, maybe he had a maid, too—and was outfitted with furniture that just screamed “bachelor pad.” It’s not like it wasn’t modern, but it was abundantly clear that Derek himself had chosen everything. It was all a mish-mash of dark wood, dark colors, and simple designs.</p><p>                Placed carefully on the wall near the door was a selection of photographs in simple black frames. Stiles quickly recognized one of them as the photo of Derek, Malia, and Peter that Derek had sent earlier. Alongside it, though, was an array featuring various members of the pack. One depicted Scott, Allison, Lydia, and Jackson looking radiant in beach-ware. Another featured Allison, Lydia, and Kira clustered together at the county fair—Stiles remembered it well because he’d taken the picture. There was a photo of Derek and Cora, one of the entirety of the surviving Hale family, one of Isaac with two people he didn’t recognize, and several full-group shots.</p><p>                The central photo in the set-up made Stiles’ breath hitch. It was a simple photo taken in the diner near the station—he still didn’t remember the name of it—in one of the round corner booths. Scott and Kira were laughing at something Allison was saying across from them, Lydia rolling her eyes beside her. But in the center of the frame—eyes alight with joy—was him. He seemed to be laughing softly at whatever was being said, but the joy in his eyes took his breath away. He remembered odd occasions like this where they would invite him along to hang-outs, but he couldn’t remember feeling that way.</p><p>                He swiped a hand at his eye, which threatened to leak. He was simultaneously touched at somehow being included within the pack’s space—even slightly—and bitter at having been left out. How dare they put him in this place, where he was so clearly unwanted? How dare they knowingly leave him out of it all, but then insist on having a reminder of the squishy human they were supposedly protecting? How dare they have other humans in the pack and still insist on keeping him in the dark? How dare they make him feel like he was worth nothing?</p><p>                The frames began to rattle against the wall. He closed his eyes, shoved his hand in his pocket, yanked the wolf-head chess piece out, and began to rub it with his thumb. He took several deep breaths, counted to ten, and focused on the feeling of the worn wood in his hand. He mentally mapped the harsh ridges and the smooth contours, tracing over them and imagining a wolf. He envisioned the softness of fur, the rumble of a growl, and the sharp, piercing eyes of a predator.</p><p>                The rattling stopped. He pushed out a harsh, shaky breath before opening his eyes. He couldn’t do this here. He shoved the chess piece in his pocket and glared at the photo once more before turning away.</p><p>                Allison, Lydia, and Scott were all watching him. He took another shaky breath and locked his jaw. He couldn’t stay here. Not like this. He stalked over to the coffee table, slammed the book he’d been reading, collected the stack of books, and headed for the door.</p><p>                “What are you doing?” Scott asked from right behind him.</p><p>                Stiles whirled around, face stony. He didn’t care. “What does it look like?”</p><p>                “I know you’re not leaving,” Scott said, hints of anger seeping into his voice.</p><p>                “So, what, Scott? Now you want me here?” He raised both of his eyebrows in a silent challenge.</p><p>                Scott blinked and took a step back, face flashing between confusion, grief, and anger in quick succession. “I always wanted you here!” He was nearly yelling, but there was a hint of hurt to it. “How do you not get that?”</p><p>                “Well maybe you should have acted like it instead of leaving me behind!” Stiles was yelling, but he didn’t care.</p><p>                “We were trying to protect you!” Scott yelled back, eyes flashing a dangerous red.</p><p>                “Well you did a shitty job of it! You couldn’t even protect me from myself!” The lights started to flicker, and the photos on the wall started to clatter.</p><p>                “Boys!” Lydia interrupted, voice hard as steel. “Stiles. Anchor.”</p><p>                Stiles didn’t feel much like cooperating just then. “You,” he pointed at Lydia and Allison, not yelling anymore but perilously near it, “Don’t get to talk.” He leveled his finger at Scott next. “All of you kept me so far in the dark I didn’t even have my own fucking father to go to.”</p><p>                Allison set her jaw. “That’s not fair, Stiles, and you know it.” Her voice shook desperately.</p><p>                He glared at her. “Isn’t it, though? Because I seem to remember you all having a la-dee-fucking-da time in high school. While I suffocated night after night in my goddamn bedroom, thinking nobody fucking cared about me.”</p><p>                Scott stepped in Stiles’ line of sight, blocking Allison. “We didn’t have an easy time of it either, Stiles! We had people constantly trying to kill us! You don’t know anything about it!”</p><p>                Stiles licked his lips. “Yeah, and what a load of good that did, huh. Cause instead I just tried to kill myself.” A crash sounded behind him. He turned to find that the diner photo had hurtled to the floor, glass scattering everywhere. He turned back to face Allison, Scott, and Lydia. He dropped the books he was holding on the floor. He didn’t care anymore. Deaton was their mentor, not his. “Wanna see a neat trick I learned last night? After I finally knew anything about what was going on?”</p><p>                He focused the anger he was feeling into belief. A belief that when he turned around, the picture would be exactly as he envisioned. Based on the gasp that came from Lydia, he figured it’d worked. “Now leave me the fuck alone before I blow this whole fucking building to smithereens.”</p><p>                He turned and stalked towards the door, not even pausing to admire the flames licking at the offensive photograph on the ground.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Suicide- Near the end of the chapter, an argument occurs where Stiles alludes to and then talks outright about his past suicide attempt. </p><p>Being Outed- At one point, during a car ride, Stiles is outed and then asked to clarify his sexuality.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Potential trigger brief in the end notes! If I missed anything, please let me know!<br/>Also, been having some chronic pain problems, else this would be getting written faster. Apologies!<br/>Enjoy! :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>                No one came after him. He hadn’t thought they would. There’d been a brief, traitorous hope that someone would try to stop him. That somebody cared. He stalked down the sidewalk, trying to ignore the flashing lights and blaring alarms of the cars around him. He didn’t know where he was headed. He only knew that he didn’t want to be around any of them right now. None of them understood what they’d put him through in the name of “protection.” He doubted any of them cared to try.</p>
<p>                He found himself near the parking lot where he’d stumbled across the pack last night. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He crossed the street and headed into the town’s largest park. He could head to the station—it was close enough it wouldn’t be that bad of a walk—but he didn’t want to worry his dad. He also didn’t want to go sit at home alone again. Especially not with what had happened earlier. A park would be public enough that supernatural creeper weirdos would leave him alone, right?</p>
<p>                He made his way to the playground, which was blissfully abandoned at the moment. Maybe elementary schools were still in session, even if college had let out? He wasn’t sure. He was just thankful for some peace. He wasn’t entirely alone—he could spot some people meandering along the pathways and sitting under trees and on benches nearby—which made him feel a bit better. There were at least no cars in the immediate vicinity to set off if his emotions got out of control again.</p>
<p>                He took a seat on one of the old swing sets and let himself sway idly, kicking lightly at the soft wood chips underneath. He felt a little bad about how he’d handled the interaction before he left. He hadn’t set out to yell at any of them for what happened. He blamed them—knew that their actions had hurt him—but he knew he could have tried harder, too. He’d just let it all happen back then, after all. Hadn’t bothered to bring it up to Scott, to mention how much it hurt to be losing the one person he cared about as much as his dad. He hadn’t wanted to speed up the loss.</p>
<p>                Hell, he hadn’t even mentioned it to his dad. The Sheriff had only found out a few months ago, when Stiles had finally felt stable enough to express what had brought him to such a low point to begin with. Even then, he’d only told his dad because he deserved to know. If he’d had it his way, he would have never told a soul. If he’d had it his way, he never would have been able to tell.</p>
<p>                He took a shaky breath and closed his eyes. He’d tried really hard to move past the self-destructive thought processes thing, but they kept coming back. He was haunting himself, but he never quite seemed to be able to get a grip on his brain. Sometimes he feared he never would. Perhaps what he needed was to be done with this place—these people.</p>
<p>                Tears streaked down his face. He didn’t want to abandon Scott or his dad. Or even Scott’s mom, for that matter—God, she’d be pissed he hadn’t seen her yet. As much as finding new people would help, he couldn’t bring himself to even entertain the thought of being without them. As mad as he was about everything they’d subjected him to, he still loved them fiercely. He wanted them in his life, for them to treat him the way he wanted to be treated. He sighed. He didn’t want to hurt them, but he didn’t want to hurt himself anymore either. He wasn’t entirely sure what to do. He scrubbed at his eyes desperately.</p>
<p>                “Stiles?” Derek said from behind him.</p>
<p>                Stiles’ chest loosened with warmth. There was a tint of worry there, but the warmth encompassed it. He twisted a little and turned his head over his shoulder to watch Derek approach. He didn’t have the leather jacket today, instead opting for a tight gray V-neck and jeans. They hugged his amazing body in a way that was going to be torture to have to look at. “Aren’t you supposed to be off galivanting in the woods and avoiding me?” Stiles asked quietly.</p>
<p>                Derek huffed and pulled a watch out of his pocket—identical to one he was wearing on his left wrist. As he approached, he handed it to Stiles. “I had Deaton rush them,” he said.</p>
<p>                The time-piece itself was fairly average—cheap metal and glass over a simple 12-hour display. The straps, however, were leather with runes carved into them on the inside. “Thanks,” he said, and clasped it carefully around his left wrist. “How do we know it’s working?”</p>
<p>                Derek shrugged and made his way to the swing to Stiles’ right. “He said to call him if anything strange happened.” He swayed idly on the swing, regarding Stiles carefully. “You okay?”</p>
<p>                Stiles tried to force a smile, but failed miserably. “I’m fine,” he still tried.</p>
<p>                Derek frowned. “You’re lying,” he said. “I can hear your heartbeat.”</p>
<p>                Stiles grimaced. Lie detecting superpowers. Great. He ducked his head in a silent apology. He chewed on the inside of his bottom lip and shrugged. “What’d they tell you?”</p>
<p>                Derek clasped the chains holding his swing lightly. “They said you ran out. They’re worried.”</p>
<p>                Stiles snorted. “Sure they are,” he said sarcastically. “Like they even care.”</p>
<p>                Derek scowled. A concerned note within the warmness in Stiles’ chest—the mate bond, he supposed—pulsed. “What happened?” Derek asked.</p>
<p>                Stiles sniffed and looked down. “I freaked about something and wanted to leave. Scott tried to stop me, so we argued.” He shrugged. “They don’t get where I’m coming from.” He glanced over at Derek warily. “Sorry about starting that fire, by the way.”</p>
<p>                Derek’s eyes lit up with panic. “What?”</p>
<p>                Stiles shook his hands in front of him. “Shit, no. It wasn’t much. I just kind of—“ He huffed a laugh. “I burned the picture with me in it from your little pack collage.”</p>
<p>                Derek’s brow furrowed, but he calmed. “What are you talking—” He paused. “Shit,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I forgot about that. I swear, I didn’t put that up. Allison and Lydia thought the loft could use a bit of ‘personality’ or something.” He shook his head. “I don’t even know why they included that picture, honestly.”</p>
<p>                Stiles shrugged. He didn’t particularly want to psychoanalyze it either. “I guess it just reminds me of how they abandoned me.”</p>
<p>                Derek’s scowl deepened. “What do you mean? Abandoned you?”</p>
<p>                Stiles glared at Derek incredulously. “What do you mean ‘what do you mean’? I mean they left me out of everything.”</p>
<p>                Derek nodded slowly, eyebrows pinching. “Yeah, I knew that. But how does leaving you out of the supernatural abandon—” He paused, gears turning. His face fell. “Their whole lives became about the supernatural,” he said dumbly. “They left you out of the supernatural.” He tightened his hands around the chains, jaw clenching and eyes flashing blue momentarily before reverting to their natural color. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose, before turning his attention back to Stiles. “I am so sorry, Stiles. You never deserved that sort of thing.”</p>
<p>                Stiles watched him carefully. “Thank you,” he said. “You never knew?”</p>
<p>                Derek shook his head. “They only mentioned you in passing sometimes. I knew you were the Sheriff’s kid, but I didn’t really concern myself with the high school stuff. I think it reminded me too much of before the fire.” He shrugged. “Maybe I should have. Could have told them to knock it off.”</p>
<p>                Stiles gave him a small smile. “Thanks, Der,” he said softly. “Sorry you had to find out like this.”</p>
<p>                Derek shook his head fiercely. “I’m not glad that it happened, but I’m glad that I know.” He scrutinized Stiles for a moment. “We could kill them,” he said seriously.</p>
<p>                Stiles’ eyes bugged out and he shook his head vehemently. “Jesus, Derek, no. No killing. That’s so extreme, why would killing be your first suggestion? Is this something I need to be concerned about going forward with you or—”</p>
<p>                “Stiles.”</p>
<p>                “—I’m not sure I’m totally comfortable being party to that kind of violent impulse, even if the fact that you could very easily do it is incredibly hot and—”</p>
<p>                “Stiles.”</p>
<p>                “—you really shouldn’t bring that up out of—what?”</p>
<p>                “It was the most extreme thing I could think of,” Derek explained. “If you don’t want to kill them, then what do you want?”</p>
<p>                Stiles opened his mouth, but deflated. He wasn’t entirely sure. He knew he wanted the people he cared about to still be in his life, but he wasn’t sure how they could come back from the years of continued mistakes. How could they even begin to imagine what those years had been like for him? Would they even want to?</p>
<p>                “I guess,” Stiles said finally, “I just want them to understand what they did. I’m not sure any of them get how fucking lonely I was. What it did to me.”</p>
<p>                Derek nodded softly and looked down. “I can understand loneliness,” he said. “It’s nowhere near the same situation. But I get it a little.” He cleared his throat. “You know about the fire?”</p>
<p>                Stiles nodded curtly, curious where he was going with this. “Yeah, kind of.”</p>
<p>                Derek nodded again. “Afterwards, my sister Laura and I got out of Beacon Hills as soon as we could. Our uncle was out of it, and we didn’t know that Cora had survived.” His eyebrows pinched. “We felt scattered—like we wouldn’t ever be able to settle again. Everything we’d known had been taken from us. A part of me wondered if we’d ever be able to move forward.” He kicked at the ground lightly. “We went to New York. Figured a big city would be just what we needed—get away from everyone looking at us with sad eyes because of what we’d lost. We found a good apartment, Laura found work.” He shrugged. “It was easier in a place where nobody knew us. But I shut my sister out for a long time. Pissed her off to no end.” He sniffed. “I went to a bad place, once. Tried anything I could to forget. Sex, parties, wolfsbane-spiked booze. None of it worked. I started losing my mind, almost.”</p>
<p>                Stiles frowned and tried to imagine Derek as a teenager—mourning his family and trying to start over somewhere else. He’d considered it a few times—even briefly today—but Derek had actually gone through with it. “Did it help? Starting over?”</p>
<p>                Derek shrugged and looked up. “Yes and no. You still have the shit with you, but fewer people to force you to work through it.” He looked back down, huffed, then smiled softly. “I had Laura, of course. She was my Alpha. She told me she never wanted to let me out of her sight again, at one point. At my lowest, she pulled me aside and forced me to look at the choices I was making. It didn’t work, at first, but I like to think she’d be proud of the man I became.”</p>
<p>                Stiles smiled softly at him and nodded. “Yeah,” he said softly, “I think so, too.” After a few silent moments, he said, “Thanks, Der.” He sighed. “I guess I’m just not sure what to do now. With all that.” He waved a hand vaguely.</p>
<p>                Derek nodded. “Do you still want them in your life?”</p>
<p>                Stiles grimaced. “Yeah. Does that make me a bad person?”</p>
<p>                Derek snorted. “You’re not a bad person for loving people, Stiles. If anything, I think they’re extremely lucky. They don’t deserve forgiveness—not for what they did. I wouldn’t blame you if you never did. They should work incredibly hard to earn your trust back.”</p>
<p>                Stiles scoffed. “I do trust them, though. With my life.” He frowned. “Though, I guess not with my heart.”</p>
<p>                “I think you have every right to want to protect yourself from that,” Derek said. “After what they put you through, I—” He frowned, then looked up sharply at Stiles. “Is that why you tried to—”</p>
<p>                Stiles grimaced and nodded. His eyes threatened to spill over. “Sorry,” he said, wiping at them. “I didn’t mean to bring all this heavy shit down on you. We barely even know each other.”</p>
<p>                Derek was in front of him, then, gazing purposefully down at him. Derek reached a hand out to him like a question. Stiles nodded minutely, and allowed Derek to pull him up into a hug.</p>
<p>                Derek was warm—like an embodiment of comfort—as Stiles wrapped his hands around him and buried his face in his shoulder. Derek’s strong arms snaked around Stiles’ back and grasped him gently, but firmly. Stiles’ body released the tears he’d been trying to hold back, and he sobbed into Derek’s shirt. “Never be sorry for needing help, Stiles,” he said fiercely, sincerity coating every syllable. “I’m here. Whatever you need.” Derek’s left hand worked up to the back of Stiles’ head, which he cupped in his large hand as if it was something precious.</p>
<p>                They stayed like that for a couple of minutes—even after Stiles’ tears had stopped—basking in the comfort of another person. Eventually, Stiles lifted his head off of Derek’s shoulder, but didn’t let go quite yet. “Thank you,” he said, sniffling. “This helped, I think.”</p>
<p>                Derek smiled softly. “Yeah?”</p>
<p>                “Yeah. Though I think I know how I want to approach things, now.” He chewed his lip for a moment. “I think I’ll just lay it out there. Tell them exactly what they did, why it was wrong, and how it hurt me. Then, I’ll tell them exactly what they need to do moving forward. Draw lines.”</p>
<p>                Derek nodded, his eyes fixed on Stiles’. “I think you deserve that. For yourself more than anyone else. And I’ll be there to support you. And make sure they listen, if you need me to.”</p>
<p>                Stiles nodded and watched a jogger running through the park over Derek’s shoulder. “Can I ask you for something,” he said, snapping his attention back to Derek, who nodded. “This morning. You and my dad kind of made a decision about what I was doing without my input. That stops now, okay?”</p>
<p>                Derek hesitated, but nodded. “I’ve not been great at that historically, but I can try. For you.” He paused. “I understand why you’d want that, though.”</p>
<p>                Stiles nodded. “Trying is better than anyone has given me in a long time, so I appreciate it.” He frowned. “Also, we’re still hugging.” He hadn’t even realized it. The two of them in each other’s space like this felt natural—nearly second-nature.</p>
<p>                Derek’s eyebrows shot up as they un-tangled themselves from one another. “Sorry,” he said. “I hadn’t even realized.”</p>
<p>                Stiles shrugged. “No biggie. Neither had I, honestly.” He huffed a laugh. “Hey, uh. I know you’re kinda the one that asked me out, and I know we said we’d do, like, a group thing. But, honestly, fuck it.  Do you want to get lunch? I’m starving.”</p>
<p>                Derek grinned. “Absolutely,” he said.</p>
<p>                They fell into step together, arms brushing occasionally. “I was thinking that café over on Fourth,” he said. “They have good fries, and I’m honestly kind of craving their Reuben. Shit will have you seeing God.”</p>
<p>                “Mhm,” Derek said, a small smile playing gracefully on his frankly distracting lips.  </p>
<p>                “Maybe that’s just because I only ever go there when I’m fucking starving. Maybe the food just tastes better because I want it more? Whatever. Anyway—”</p>
<p>                Stiles continued babbling, and Derek continued listening. As they meandered towards the café Stiles had mentioned, their bond thrummed happily between them.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*             *             *</p>
<p> </p>
<p>                Stiles’ nervous rambling continued up until they approached the café. As they neared and the nerves hummed beneath his skin, Stiles’ incessant chatter trailed off. He hadn’t really dated in high school, so this was almost entirely new territory for him. He really didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of Derek. The guy was gorgeous enough that Stiles highly doubted this was his first rodeo.</p>
<p>                They sat near the front windows as they waited for their food, silence having fallen as soon as they stepped into the restaurant. Derek seemed content to watch some of the people walking around in the heart of downtown in the middle of the day. Stiles just wasn’t sure what to say.</p>
<p>                “So,” Stiles managed finally, “This mate bond thing has been kind of wild, huh?”</p>
<p>                Derek’s attention flicked to Stiles instantly. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Definitely unexpected.” He gave Stiles a small smile. “But welcome.”</p>
<p>                Stiles bit his lip and watched a few people making their way down the sidewalk. “I’m sorry my magic stuck you with me,” he said, refusing to look at Derek. He still couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d forced this, and that Derek was trapped.</p>
<p>                “Don’t go there,” Derek said, soft but firm. “Just because it was sudden doesn’t mean I’m upset about it.” He huffed. “Honestly taking the guess-work out of it is kind of a relief for me. My choice in partners has been kind of touch-and-go.”</p>
<p>                Stiles didn’t want to pry, but he could understand the sentiment. He’d held a torch for someone who didn’t even look at him twice for years, after all. He still had more anxieties about the situation, though. “Is the guy thing weird?”</p>
<p>                Derek laughed. He was gorgeous. “No, Stiles. I am very happily bi.”</p>
<p>                Stiles relaxed into his chair and unclenched his fists, which he hadn’t known were clenched. “Thank God,” he said. “Same, though, on the bi thing. Known since, like, junior year. Came out to my dad a few months ago.”</p>
<p>                Derek smiled softly. “I figured it out while I was living in New York. Laura caught me with a guy and that was that. She left an extremely un-subtle pamphlet about safe gay sex on the kitchen counter a couple days later.” He scrunched his nose fondly, the bond growing somber. “I’m not sure who else knows. I’m sure some of them do with the bond stuff. Scott’s not exactly known for subtlety.”</p>
<p>                Stiles grimaced. “Unless it comes to big, world-altering secrets, apparently.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry. Too bitter?”</p>
<p>                Derek smirked slightly. “I think you’re allowed.” Silence settled, but it wasn’t awkward. It just felt like two people enjoying being in each other’s space. It was nice. Comfortable, even.</p>
<p>                Stiles caught Derek staring at him a little, so he opted to break the silence. “What?” He wiped a hand over his face. “Do I have something on my face?”</p>
<p>                Derek blushed, the tops of his ears turning red. “It’s nothing,” he said quickly, looking away.</p>
<p>                Stiles scrunched his eyebrows and watched Derek appraisingly. It took a second, but something dawned on him and he grinned widely. “Derek Hale,” he said, mock offended, “Were you—were you checking me out?”</p>
<p>                Derek whipped his head back towards Stiles, eyes wide. “What?” He spluttered. “No.”</p>
<p>                Stiles wagged a finger at him. “Don’t need werewolf senses to know that’s a lie, buddy.” Stiles smirked at him. “Was it my glorious cheekbones? The moles? My earlobes? Because I gotta say, Der, those are some incredibly specific body parts to be focusing on.”</p>
<p>                Derek averted his gaze and bit his lip. The bond thrummed with nervous energy. “Shut up,” he said.</p>
<p>                Stiles grinned smugly at him. “Aw, Der,” he teased, “Don’t feel bad. I’m incredibly attractive, so I really can’t blame you.”</p>
<p>                Derek frowned and looked him straight in the eye. He regarded Stiles for a few moments. “You are,” he said quietly.</p>
<p>                Stiles flushed and looked down, unable to look Derek in the eyes. “Ha! Um.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t know what you—I mean, what are you—” He laughed nervously. Suddenly he wanted to be very far away.</p>
<p>                “It was your eyes,” Derek said suddenly. “You have really nice eyes.”</p>
<p>                Stiles chanced a look at Derek, who looked downright sincere—even if his expressive eyebrows were scrunched. He blushed vividly, which he was sure travelled all the way down his neck with how it was feeling. “Oh my God,” he spluttered. “Shut up. People don’t just say that.” He covered his face with both hands. “You need to not if you’re also going to do your whole—” He waved a hand in Derek’s general direction. “Thing.”</p>
<p>                Derek chuckled lightly, nerves rattling through the bond. “My thing?” Stiles could practically feel Derek’s eyebrows raising.</p>
<p>                “Yes,” he said. “Your incredibly attractive, aspiring male model thing, Derek.” He enunciated the last syllable of Derek’s name. “I’m going to have to ask you to turn around now. There’s no way I can face your whole hot-ness thing after you said that.”</p>
<p>                “Oh?” Derek asked, the bond buzzing. “You think I’m hot?” His voice was a little strained.</p>
<p>                Stiles slumped in his seat and lowered his hands, rolling his eyes. “’You think I’m hot,’ he asks. I have eyes, don’t I?” He chuckled lightly, while Derek huffed a small laugh. He bit his lip. It was strange, in a way, knowing that the attraction was mutual. He’d never had that before.</p>
<p>                Derek cleared his throat lightly. “So, tell me about yourself.”</p>
<p>                Stiles huffed a laugh. “Seriously? How much time you have?”</p>
<p>                “For you?” Derek asked, voice soft and earnest. “As much as you need.”</p>
<p>                Stiles’ breath hitched at that. It probably sent a wave of arousal splashing around Derek’s nostrils. He hoped to every deity that may or may not exist—shit, that would be a thing he’d have to ask about, now—that Derek still wasn’t able to pick up the exact nature of the shift in Stiles’ emotions. He coughed, hoping to cover the frankly embarrassing emotional shift at a few simple words. He really liked the idea of someone being there for him. “Well—uh—okay.”</p>
<p>                The discussion stayed fairly light from there. They discussed interests mostly—finding shared interests in books, a few scattered TV shows and movies, and, oddly, cooking. “My mom made sure my sisters and I knew how to cook as soon as we got to be teenagers,” Derek said. “Always said that if we were old enough to shift, we were old enough to help get dinner on the table sometimes.”</p>
<p>                Stiles chuckled. “My dad worked so much growing up, I kind of had to help with dinner sometimes. And now that I need to worry about his health more?” He huffed. “Yeah, cooking is a must in the Stilinski household.”</p>
<p>                Though they had different preferred genres of books, TV shows, and movies—Stiles tended to prefer more action-packed fantasy and sci-fi, Derek tended to prefer classics and historical stuff—they found common ground in a shared love for documentaries, supernatural themes, and overdramatized telenovelas.</p>
<p>                “God,” Stiles said, “Scott got me hooked after he watched one at his grandma’s house once. We always loved mocking them when they got too ridiculous. But some of them are so addicting.”</p>
<p>                Derek smiled and shook his head. “My mom unironically loved them. I think an Alpha friend of hers introduced her before we were born, and she never looked back. We always set aside family time for at least one a week. She liked to drink wolfsbane-laced wine while we watched.”</p>
<p>                The conversation flowed smoothly—though every time Derek brought up anything about his family, the bond tinged with sadness—and Stiles found he really enjoyed learning mundane facts about Derek. Things like how he’d once misread a recipe for cornbread and it had ended up buried somewhere out in the preserve because it was too salty for anyone to eat, so Laura had insisted it didn’t even deserve to be in the trash. Or the time Derek had agreed to a Mario Kart tournament with the pack and had ended up beating Isaac in the standings, despite having never played a game like that before. Isaac had apparently been mortified, insisting that Derek had just gotten lucky.</p>
<p>                Stiles, meanwhile, told Derek about the time he and Scott had stayed up late eating candy and playing video games on Halloween, and Melissa had caught them the next morning when she found them crashed on the couch, covered in wrappers. She’d thought them being sick and having to clean the chocolate stains out of the couch were punishment enough. Then, Stiles talked about the time his dad had gotten so fed up with Stiles interfering with police business that he’d hired a babysitter to make sure Stiles stayed out of trouble. Humiliatingly, it had been when he was a freshman in high school.</p>
<p>                It was fun. The food was good, of course, but Stiles’ attention was wrapped up almost entirely in Derek. Their bond thrummed happily between them the entire conversation, and he couldn’t help but be glad that this was where he’d found himself.</p>
<p>                A shock of blond hair spiked up into a horrifically familiar douchey style caught his attention outside the window—a reflex from high school that had, joyfully, stuck with him even now. Jackson looked much like he had the other day, if a little deflated somehow. He was motioning to the both of them gently to come outside. Having already finished their food, Stiles scrunched his brow and shrugged at Derek, who looked vaguely concerned.</p>
<p>                As they pushed outside, Jackson had moved further down the sidewalk, at the entrance to an alleyway. “Jackson?” Stiles asked incredulously. As soon as he spoke, Jackson put a silent finger to his lips, and slipped into the alley. Both Stiles and Derek tensed. They exchanged a look, and proceeded cautiously.</p>
<p>                Jackson was further down the alleyway, and was continuing to usher them forward. Stiles really didn’t trust this, but he knew that the pack wouldn’t fuck with him for no reason—not now that he knew everything. Derek, though, stepped in front of him and put a hand out to prevent Stiles from going too far forward. “Jackson?” Derek asked, almost too low for Stiles to hear. “What’s going on?”</p>
<p>                They took a few more steps forward before they were both violently wrenched against the brick wall of the next building over by unseen force, then flipped over so that their backs were to the wall. Stiles dazedly tried to focus on whatever was coming down the alley from behind them, but his head throbbed too much to make out any details. The form was mostly obscured by a dark cloak anyway, and it strode slowly and confidently forward. Jackson stalked into Stiles’ periphery, hovering near Derek, eyes an almost reptilian slit. “What the fuck, Whittemore?” Stiles clenched out, pain still blooming throughout his body.</p>
<p>                Both Jackson and the figure ignored him, focusing instead on Derek. The cloaked figure got right into Derek’s face, looking up at his dangling form and allowing the hood to draw back just enough to make out features. It was a woman with wisps of brown hair that seemed to be pulled back, her blue eyes trained fully on Derek’s face. She was beautiful, but she made Stiles extremely uneasy. As soon as she came into full view, though, Derek’s eyes widened and he looked frankly panicked. “Jennifer?” Derek asked incredulously. “You’re dead! How are you here?”</p>
<p>                Both the cloaked woman—Jennifer, it seemed—and Jackson placed a silent finger to their lips in complete sync. It was super creepy. Jennifer’s finger trailed down Derek’s chest before her attention flicked over to Stiles, a smirk on her face. She tilted her head before fluidly moving her arm away from the wall, then towards it with speed. Stiles was violently pulled away from the wall before being smacked back into it, hard. He groaned again as dizziness and nausea overtook him.</p>
<p>                Derek strained and pulled against the invisible shackles keeping them afloat, and he seemed to break free of the wall for a moment, his eyes now trained on Stiles. Jennifer snapped her hand over to his face and grabbed his jaw in her hand. She shook her head, then glanced at Jackson and nodded.</p>
<p>                Jackson brought his right hand up and shifted it into sharp claws surrounded by reptilian scales. He brought a single claw towards Derek’s neck.</p>
<p>                “No!” Stiles said, panic beginning to buzz beneath his skin. Distantly, he recognized a few car alarms were going off on the street nearby. “Fuck you,” he said. “Get away from him!” He needed to focus, he needed to figure out a way to channel his power into stopping Jackson before Derek got hurt. Before he lost someone else.</p>
<p>                Just as Jackson’s claw touched Derek’s skin, a wave of force pushed both Jennifer and Jackson away, but not before Jackson’s claw scratched Derek, drawing blood. Jennifer and Jackson flew down the alleyway, startled off their feet. They landed softly, though, and soundlessly retreated down the other end of the alleyway.</p>
<p>                Just as Jennifer got out of sight, the spell holding Stiles and Derek in place released, dropping them to the ground. Stiles slumped against the wall, drained, while Derek didn’t seem to be moving at all. “Derek?” Stiles asked, reaching over.</p>
<p>                “Call Scott,” Derek said, slightly muffled. “We need backup.”</p>
<p>                Stiles fumbled his phone out of his pocket—thankfully intact, aside from a couple new cracks—and dialed. As the phone rang, Stiles asked, “Are you okay?”</p>
<p>                Scott answered before Derek could respond. “Stiles,” he said, relief flooding his voice. “Are you okay? Where are you?”</p>
<p>                Stiles ran a hand through his hair. “By the café on Fourth. Derek and I just had lunch, but we got jumped by Jackson and some woman Derek called Jennifer.” Stiles made his way to Derek, who still wasn’t moving. “Shit, Derek, can you move? What’s going on?”</p>
<p>                “Kanima venom,” Derek said.</p>
<p>                “Wait,” Scott said, “Kanima venom? From Jackson?” He paused. “But Jackson’s right here!”</p>
<p>                Stiles turned to the alleyway where the duo that had attacked them had vanished. “What’s that make, two people who’ve accosted me who shouldn’t be anywhere near here?”</p>
<p>                “Make that three,” Derek added helpfully. “Jennifer’s supposed to be dead.” He growled, low and frustrated. “I can’t move. Scott, someone needs to come pick us up. Now.”</p>
<p>                “On it,” Scott said before hanging up.</p>
<p>                “Shit,” Stiles said. “What if they come back? I don’t even know how I pushed them back. They seemed surprised by my magic. Maybe they weren’t expecting it? Who were they anyway?”</p>
<p>                “Breathe, Stiles,” Derek said. “I can’t even smell anything. I wasn’t paying enough attention when the Jackson look-alike lured us in here, but I don’t smell either of them.”</p>
<p>                Stiles shook his head and placed a hand to his forehead, still on high alert. “What the fuck is going on?” He was honestly a little terrified of the answer.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Suicide- At several points in the chapter, allusions are made to Stiles' suicide attempt. And the reasons behind it are discussed. At one point early in the chapter, Stiles has a brief thought that alludes to his previous desire to end his life. </p>
<p>Depression and Anxiety- Throughout, multiple descriptions of depression and anxiety are made.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>First, notes at the end will provide general trigger warning outline. If I missed anything, PLEASE let me know!<br/>Secondly, this was originally going to part of the previous chapter, but things were running a little long. Hence the second update in the same day.<br/>Also, this chapter marks the introduction of an original character who will be included in the rest of the fic. If original characters are not your thing, this is your fair warning.<br/>As always, enjoy! :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>                Stiles would have been thrilled to see Derek’s bedroom under different circumstances. Now, though, he’d barely given any of it a thought aside from a cursory pat on the back for having correctly guessed in his dreams the previous night what color Derek’s bedspread might be. He’d always seemed like a dark blue kind of guy, anyway.</p><p>                Derek had been set on the king-size bed gently, and Stiles had opted to sit with him while the rest of the pack headed their way for a meeting. He held onto Derek for dear life as he glared at the bedspread beside him. He’d been so stupid to follow somebody—Jackson, of all people—into an alley without even asking for an explanation. They’d gotten hurt—Derek had gotten hurt. He’d never be able to forgive himself if Derek got killed because of him, and given how things seemed to be in the supernatural world, that wouldn’t be hard to do.</p><p>                “Hey,” Derek said. “Don’t. We’re okay.”</p><p>                “But—” Stiles protested.</p><p>                “The Kanima venom will wear off. None of the damage is lasting. Sometimes you have to take that as a victory.”</p><p>                Stiles slouched. “If you say so.” He frowned. “I still should’ve—”</p><p>                “I didn’t even recognize it wasn’t him. There’s no way you could have. Mistakes happen, Stiles.”</p><p>                Before Stiles could argue further, someone knocked at the open doorway. “Can I come in?” Melissa McCall asked gently, her voice a salve for a shitty day.</p><p>                Stiles turned and was flooded with relief. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her. She was a small woman, her long, curly brown hair pulled into a ponytail, and her warm brown eyes so inviting it was like coming home. Stiles nearly threw himself off the bed to rush over and pull her into a tight hug, leaning his head down and hooking it over her shoulder. She was in light green scrubs, so she was either on her way to or from the hospital, but he wanted to keep her pinned there for a long, long time. Melissa had been there for him for so much of his life, even when Scott had gotten distant. He’d honestly forgotten the comfort she could bring to any room.</p><p>                “Shit,” he said, tears streaming down his face and staining her scrubs a little. “I’m sorry I haven’t come to see you.”</p><p>                Melissa squeezed him. “It’s okay, sweetie,” she said, voice crackling a bit with emotion. “I know you’ve been through hell. You’re allowed to go at your own pace.” They pulled away from each other, and Melissa gave him a watery smile. “Though it seems you’ve already found trouble,” she joked, nodding towards Derek.</p><p>                Stiles laughed wetly. “You know me. Always stirring up something.”</p><p>                She laughed a little at that and shooed him back towards the bed. “Scott said you hit your head? What was it this time?” She gave a pointed look at Derek.</p><p>                “Jackson and Jennifer Blake,” Derek said.</p><p>                Melissa paused from where she’d been preparing to start concussion protocol. “You’re kidding.”</p><p>                Stiles shook his head. “Nope. At least, that’s what they looked like.”</p><p>                Melissa swore under her breath before starting what, at one point in Stiles’ life, had been routine. He’d been a pretty active kid, to be fair.</p><p>                “I don’t think you have a concussion,” she said, nurse-voice coming out, “But I’d like you to take it easy for the rest of the night.” She glanced at Derek. “I’m not worried about you because of your werewolf healing. Just try not to get yourself killed, Derek.”</p><p>                Stiles frowned and bit his lip, struggling with how he wanted to do this. “You knew?” He finally settled on.</p><p>                Melissa smiled sadly at him. “I did,” she said. “Though I think they’d have kept me in the dark for a lot longer if Scott hadn’t been forced to shift in front of me.” She shook her head. “I know you’re probably angry for being kept in the dark—and scared, God knows—but I’m glad I never had to see you bloodied and beaten.” Her eyes watered a little bit, and she dabbed at them with her thumbs.</p><p>                Stiles bit his lip before crushing her into another hug. He really could never stay mad at Melissa. “I’m sure you hear this a lot, but thanks for looking out for them. I couldn’t have handled losing anybody. Even if they’re all dumb.”</p><p>                Melissa laughed wetly before they released the hug. She dabbed at her eyes some more before glancing at the digital clock on Derek’s nightstand. She sighed and turned back to him. “I have to get to the hospital, but I’d better not see you there anytime soon.” She pointed a finger at him. “And make sure the next time I see you, it isn’t because of an emergency, got it?”</p><p>                Stiles rolled his eyes. He’d actually missed this. “You make it sound like I actively seek out danger, Melissa. I’m wounded.”</p><p>                Melissa quirked her lips a bit. “Now that you’re involved with all this? You might as well be.” She headed for the door, but paused before leaving. “I’m glad you’re back, Stiles. I missed you.”</p><p>                He offered her a soft smile and a wave before she left. He sighed. He’d have to make an effort to see her. Maybe make that quiche he knew she liked. The noise filtering from downstairs was starting to crescendo, so he figured that the meeting might start soon, if it hadn’t already. “Hey, Der? You good up here? I know you can hear everything from up here, but I can’t.”</p><p>                “Go,” Derek said, “And kick their asses if they don’t listen.”</p><p>                “That’s the plan,” Stiles said, smirking.</p><p>                As Stiles made his way downstairs, he began to pick up bits and pieces of an argument. Scott was arguing that they needed to do town-wide sweeps, Lydia was arguing that more data collection and research needed to be done, and Jackson was arguing that they all needed to shut up. As Stiles reached the bottom of the spiral staircase, though, the people gathered around the dining area went quiet.</p><p>                “Don’t stop on my account,” Stiles said, trudging over to the gathering. He recognized basically everyone there. Scott, Allison, Lydia, Kira, Jackson, Isaac, and Cora were all there, of course. A blond woman with bright red lipstick stood beside a brawny, serious looking man. He recognized them from some of the pictures in the pack collage. He imagined they were Erica and Boyd—both of whom looked vaguely familiar. He also recognized somebody who’d hung around Scott for a while in high school named Liam, as well as a few people that seemed connected to him. They were a little more on the outskirts of the whole thing, but were listening intently. Most surprising, though, was Chris Argent—Allison’s father—and Stiles’ own dad milling near the window behind the dining area.</p><p>                “Stiles,” Scott said, “You don’t need to be here. We can handle—”</p><p>                The lights began flickering dangerously, but Stiles was able to tamp down on it, even with the frustration that flooded him. “Am I not allowed to be involved in things that directly affect me?” He asked incredulously. “Because I gotta say, Scott, that’s a shitty thing to pull.”</p><p>                A few voices started to voice their dissent, but Stiles brought his hand up, clenching it into a fist, and believed. “Shut. Up.” Everyone’s jaws clinked together satisfyingly, though it made Stiles wince a little. He smirked, though, at having been able to exert a little control like this. “You all are going to listen to me for once in your goddamn lives.” He looked at all of them—some of whom were trying to wrench their mouths open, while others looked horrified. Erica looked positively elated, for some reason. “You all spent years—fucking years—making decisions for me.” He looked directly at Scott. “That ends today.” He moved closer, standing directly across the table from Scott, who had centered himself like fucking Jesus in da Vinci’s <em>The</em> <em>Last Supper</em>. “I am not helpless. I am not weak. Quite frankly, that you think I can’t handle myself in any situation is insulting. I didn’t spend the last year in a fucking mental health program in goddamn Sacramento for you all to treat me like I’m breakable. News flash, I’m not. The part of me that broke last year? The reason I nearly fucking killed myself?” Most everyone gathered—aside from Chris—flinched at that. “Is because you all decided what was best for me and cut me out of your lives like I was a piece of shit you were scraping off your boots.” He was shivering with anger, and the lights flickered again. He took another steadying breath. “You all made me feel like I was worth nothing. To anybody. And I’m not going to sit back and let you do it to me again. Because I’m goddamn sick and tired of you all prancing around like it’s not my life you’re screwing with.”</p><p>                His gaze slipped over the pack members briefly. He wasn’t overly concerned with how everyone was taking it—though Erica still looked like she was eating the whole thing up—but he noted with satisfaction that Lydia, Allison, and Scott were all avoiding his gaze. Kira and Jackson looked chagrined—which he would have expected from Kira, but was surprised to see from Jackson. Chris was hard to read, as always, but Stiles’ dad looked somber and defeated. He didn’t much care about what the rest of the group thought.</p><p>                “Now. That being said, I am more than happy to offer my skills and services to the pack. Hell, I’d like to have the chance to get to know all of you, and be friends again with those of you I already know. But you all need to fucking earn it. You were all complicit in isolating me, you all knew exactly what was going on.” He grimaced a little, remembering that Derek hadn’t known anything. He figured Derek hadn’t been the only one. “Well, not all of you.” He sighed and looked directly at Scott, Lydia, and Allison. “I would trust many of you with my life. But it’ll take a damn long time before I trust you with anything else again. You want me to be in your life? Act like it. I’m done being treated like I’m worthless.” He flourished the hand he’d used to silence them all in the air for a moment, willing and believing that it would undo what he’d done. Everyone instantly grabbed their lower jaw and moved it around a bit.</p><p>                Everyone looked sheepish, not meeting Stiles’ eye for a few moments. Scott was the first to speak. “We want you here,” he said, looking around the gathered pack members. “I know we’ve not done the best at showing that, but it’s true.” He thought for a moment. “I had no idea we were what caused—” He broke off, his voice failing and cracking.</p><p>                Stiles nodded. “I’m not sure any of you thought about it that much.” He called behind him, barely louder than he was speaking currently, “How was it you put it earlier, Der? ‘Their whole lives became about the supernatural, and they kept me out of the supernatural’?”</p><p>                Lydia’s eyes widened first, unsurprisingly. Most of the rest of the pack followed soon after, the gears turning and realization dawning. Even Chris and Stiles’ dad hung their heads.</p><p>                “Fuck,” Scott said quietly. He lifted his gaze to Stiles’, tears threatening and voice thick. “I am so, so sorry, Stiles. You were my brother and I didn’t even think—” He choked. “I can’t blame you for being so mad at us. Fuck, I’m mad at us.” He took a shaky breath. “I think I speak for the pack when I say that we will be better.”</p><p>                Everyone nodded their assent, but Stiles shook his head. “Don’t make promises, Scott. Let your actions speak for themselves, here.”</p><p>                “Well put, Mr. Stilinski,” a deep, but whimsical voice sounded from nowhere. The rest of the pack grimaced a little as a whoosh sounded from the center of the loft.</p><p>                Stiles turned to find a large, billowing ovular pillar of some kind of black smoke erupting from the ground. An almost sickly-pale, average looking man with short, styled brown hair and dark blue eyes strode out from the mass and into the room. As soon as the man left the rolling black smoke, it disappeared along with the consistent small whooshing that had accompanied it. “Uh,” Stiles said intelligently, “Thanks?”</p><p>                The man offered him a wide, bright smile. He honestly creeped Stiles out a little bit. “Nice to see you, Stiles,” the man said. “Now, where were we? Sorry I’m late. Had to tie up some loose ends with a rogue Alpha in Québec.”</p><p>                Scott sighed. “You really didn’t have to come, Michael. Seriously, we got this.”</p><p>                The man—Michael—shrugged. “There is a crisis in Beacon Hills, so here I am. Is that not what I told you the deal would be as a consultant with your pack?”</p><p>                Scott grimaced slightly. “Yes,” he said, defeated. “Stiles, this is Michael. He’s a magic consultant for the pack. He helps out sometimes.”</p><p>                Stiles nodded curtly. “Nice to meet you,” he said. He wasn’t sure of what to make of this guy, but being around him gave Stiles some serious heebie-jeebies. He still wanted to be polite, though.</p><p>                Michael regarded Stiles curiously. “Oh,” he said, eyebrows shooting up, “We haven’t met yet. I forgot.” He nearly curtsied for Stiles. “The pleasure is mine, of course. I’m glad to see the pack’s finally come to its senses and let you in on the things that go bump in the night.” He rolled his eyes and waved a hand in front of his face. “Honestly, I’ve been suggesting they do that for years, but does anyone listen to the immortal magic-user with centuries of experience? No.”</p><p>                Stiles could only blink at that. “I’m sorry,” he said, “Immortal?” The guy didn’t even look much older than him.</p><p>                Michael grimaced. “Unconditionally so, I’m afraid.” He shrugged, as if it was no big deal. “My duty is to help, so I’m here to help. So? Fill me in.”</p><p>                Scott gestured towards Stiles before crossing his arms. Stiles gulped before beginning. “This morning I woke up to somebody that looked like Derek’s uncle Peter watching me sleep. But apparently Peter’s nowhere close enough for that to be possible. Something similar happened at lunch with Derek, with people that looked like Jackson and someone named Jennifer. She seemed to use magic to pin us against a wall, and Jackson nicked Derek and now he’s paralyzed.”</p><p>                Scott, Jackson, Cora, Isaac, Erica, Boyd, and a couple of the younger group perked up and inclined their heads towards the top of the spiral staircase in the corner of the room. Michael seemed to incline his head as well, but frowned.</p><p>                “Is Derek trapped in his room?” Michael asked. “Honestly, he should be here for the more human ears amongst us.” He gave a pointed glance towards Allison and Lydia before gesturing behind him with his arm. The same whoosh that had signaled his arrival sounded again, but dissipated quickly.</p><p>                “You know I hate that,” Derek said grouchily from the couch. Stiles turned and leaned to catch a glimpse of his mate, who looked irritated about being moved. “As I was saying,” he said, “The look-alikes we came in contact with at lunch didn’t smell like anything. It was as if their scents were being masked.”</p><p>                Lydia quirked her head, lips pursing. “It’s fairly uncommon for a spellcaster to be able to glamour more than themselves, right? And yet this person was able to do that, mask their scents, and hold two people—one of whom is a werewolf—in midair.”</p><p>                “And on top of things appears to have control over a Kanima,” Michael added. “This is quite curious.” He crossed one arm against his chest and tapped two fingers against his lips from a loosely held fist with the other. He stilled before turning his head back towards the couch. “Derek? Would you mind terribly if I examined you for magical residue? I have a hunch.”</p><p>                “Fine,” Derek said, sourness filling his and Stiles’ bond. Stiles tried to send over as much reassurance as he could muster. He hoped it worked that way.</p><p>                Michael maneuvered towards Derek’s still form before running a hand over the air around a foot above him. He hummed a few times before bending to where Stiles knew Derek had been scratched. “Do you mind?” Derek grunted softly in assent before Michael continued the examination. A few moments later, Michael huffed. “Well it certainly wasn’t a Kanima,” he said with finality. “I thought not, given how rare they are.” He flicked his attention to Jackson for a moment before addressing the rest of the room. “A spell is lingering within Derek’s body that seems to mimic the effects of a Kanima’s venom. I’ll counter it, if you all want to do with that information what you will.” Without even waiting for anyone to answer, Michael kneeled and began mumbling softly under his breath.</p><p>                Stiles raised his brow before turning back to the pack. “Well now that the suspect list has been reduced to literally all spellcasters, what kind of game-plan we thinking?” Stiles asked.</p><p>                Lydia shot him an annoyed look. “Obviously it’s not all spellcasters,” she said in that tone Stiles had come to understand as meaning “you’re too smart to say something so stupid.” He’d been on the receiving end of that a few times in high school, even before she’d started eating lunch with him and Scott, back before he’d been unceremoniously left out of many of those lunchtime activities. The memory pained him a little. “Whoever did this is powerful, but the information we’ve gathered should allow us to narrow down what type of magic-user we could be dealing with.”</p><p>                Chris spoke up, voice low and soft in a way that had intimidated Stiles the few times he’d met the man over the years. “I’ll go through my contacts, see if any Hunters have come across a caster with this kind of M.O. recently.”</p><p>                “Stiles, I think you should stay here tonight,” the Sheriff said. “I won’t be home, and whatever this thing is has shown an interest in you. Better to have you somewhere you’re not alone and where this thing won’t expect you to be. Now, I know you don’t like decisions being made for you, which is why I’m asking you—as your father—to do this for me.”</p><p>                Stiles bristled, but the Sheriff had a point. “Fine,” he conceded, “But only because I was going to suggest it myself.” Stiles chewed his lip for a second. “Has anyone else come in contact with something like this the past few days? Or is it just me and Derek?” When everyone else shook their head or said no, Stiles nodded. “No? Awesome.”</p><p>                “It’s likely your Spark, Stiles,” Michael said as he stood from where he’d been kneeling over Derek, who sat up stiffly, rubbing his neck. “Sparks aren’t exactly run-of-the-mill themselves, so when your latent abilities woke up, this thing likely responded to your Spark’s pull.”</p><p>                Derek scowled. “Pull? Is his magic a beacon?”</p><p>                Lydia shuddered and let out a shaky breath. “Another beacon? What if this thing starts messing with the Nemeton, too?”</p><p>                Stiles let out a frustrated huff. “Not all of us know what you guys are talking about,” he said. “Mind filling me in? Kanima? Sparks? The Nemeton?”</p><p>                Michael, at least, seemed to want to be helpful. “Kanima are mutated werewolves with a toxin in their claws that can paralyze even a werewolf for hours,” he said, counting off on his fingers. “Sparks are a kind of magic-user—like yourself—who derive a lot of the energy for their casting from a power source within their bodies known as their Spark—terribly confusing, I know. I’m surprised Deaton hasn’t told you about it yet.” He waved a hand before counting off a third finger. “The Nemeton is a powerful druidic site within the Beacon Hills Preserve that acts as the namesake beacon for this town, attracting supernatural nasties that ruin everyone’s day. There are others around the world, but this one was tainted, and much of the town’s hardships have been a direct result of this.” He smiled at Stiles, soft and encouraging, before flicking his attention to Lydia. “And to answer your question, Lydia, I frankly don’t know. Someone should check up on it, though, to ensure its safety. I’m not sensing any disturbances within the Telluric Currents—geomagnetic energy fields that affect magic and the supernatural,” he said, turning to Stiles briefly, “—but there’s no telling what this thing’s end-goal is.” He paused and pursed his lips. “Quite frankly whatever this is concerns me.”</p><p>                The entire room tensed at that. The fact that it concerned Michael seemed to put them all on edge. Everyone seemed to chew on this revelation for a second before Scott tapped a finger against his still-crossed arms and said, “Lydia, Allison—research what you can about strong spellcasters.” His voice resonated with an authority Stiles had never known Scott could muster. “Whoever this is, they don’t sound run-of-the-mill.” His gaze flicked to Michael for a moment before he continued. “Wolves—run the perimeter, but use the buddy system. If you run into anything that seems like it could be related to this, call me, Lydia, or Derek. I’m going to head to the Nemeton with Derek, see if we can find any tampering. The rest of you know your strengths, and should help where you can. Stay in contact, stay vigilant. We need more information before we can try to tackle this thing head-on. Dismissed.”</p><p>                As the pack disbanded to go their separate ways, Scott’s fierce gaze settled on Stiles. His demeanor instantly settled, his usual soft and easy-going persona slipping back on. “What do you want to do, man?” It was strange seeing Scott slip so easily between a leader and your-friendly-neighborhood-werewolf. It seemed to suit him, oddly.</p><p>                Stiles took a deep breath. He wanted to help, but he was unsure of how he could. “I guess I could stick with the research crew,” he said finally. “Be involved in what they’re doing while I learn magic stuff.” He grimaced. “Shit. Are Deaton’s books okay?”</p><p>                Scott’s face turned into his signature “kicked puppy” look at the reminder about earlier. “Yeah. They should be with the research stuff.” He bit his lip. “Look, can we talk? I want to apologize.”</p><p>                Stiles sighed and looked around them. A few of the Betas were clearly listening in. “No privacy among werewolves,” he remarked. “Do I need to buy a dog whistle?” A few of the wolves hurriedly made to look like they were doing something else, but Erica turned fully and watched Stiles and Scott with a smirk and a quirked eyebrow. Stiles rolled his eyes at her before turning back to Scott. “We should probably focus on the thing that attacked Derek and I earlier.” He shrugged. “Later? When there are fewer, I don’t know, wolf-y ears?”</p><p>                Scott scratched the back of his neck and gave an emphatic and repeated nod. “Yeah,” he said. “Sure. Totally. Definitely.” He backed out of the conversation and hurried over to the door to speak softly with some of the wolves who were preparing to head out—some of the younger ones, it seemed.</p><p>                Stiles sighed after his best friend before turning his attention to his dad, who was still brooding by the window. “So,” Stiles said, sauntering up to him, “You kind of immediately failed at the whole ‘don’t make decisions for Stiles’ thing.”</p><p>                His dad sighed and turned to him. “Given everything,” his dad said quietly, “I think I understand. But I’m your father, kid. I’m still gonna want to tell you what to do every now and then.” He crossed his arms and looked out the window again. He closed his eyes and breathed out heavily. “You’re an adult, and I get that. But your safety matters more to me than anything. The fact that you were so vulnerable today just trying to have lunch with your—” He glanced over towards Derek, who was talking quietly with Chris. “Boyfriend?” He waved his hand dismissively. “Whatever you two are to each other. Regardless, the fact that you couldn’t have something simple like that? It kills me.”</p><p>                Stiles glanced around the room. The wolves at least pretended to not be listening, which he accepted graciously. He hadn’t really wanted to get into anything where everyone could just listen in. “I get it, dad.” He crossed his arms and looked out the window towards the preserve, which could be easily seen from this high up. It was a pretty decent view. “But you need to trust that I’m going to make the right call for myself sometimes. So please just give me the space to do that.”</p><p>                His dad crumpled slightly at that. “I trust you, son. I may not always agree with you, but I trust you.” He huffed and watched Stiles appraisingly. “We’ve still got some stuff to work on, but I think we can do it.” He ruffled Stiles’ hair, which had him rolling his eyes at his dad. “Now go do your homework, kid.” He chuckled. “Never thought I’d be saying that again.”</p><p>                “You and me both, pops,” he said as the Sheriff made for the door.</p><p>                As the Sheriff headed out, Lydia called out after him, “Tell Jordan we missed him!” The Sheriff waved over his shoulder in acknowledgement before heading for the elevator.</p><p>                Stiles raised an eyebrow. “Parrish is in on this?”</p><p>                Lydia shrugged. “He’s a Hellhound,” she said simply before setting to work on the books she had open on the desk near the back windows.</p><p>                Stiles shook his head before finding the one person in the pack he was curious about. “Catwoman,” he said to Erica as he approached. He paused and frowned. Why had he called her that? Whatever.</p><p>                Erica grinned viciously and barked a laugh. “Oh, I like you! So, what, does that make you Batman? Because that’s more Derek’s gig with all the muscles and broodiness and whatever.” She glanced behind him and grinned impossibly wider, her bright red lipstick making her look dangerous.</p><p>                Stiles turned and caught his mate’s eye, who had a long-suffering look on his face. It made Stiles snort. “Yeah,” he said, turning back to Erica, “You’re totally right. Maybe you’re more the Black Cat to my Spiderman? I could totally pull it off.”</p><p>                Erica seemed to consider, eyes raking his body shrewdly for a moment. She eventually settled back on his face and smirked. “Oh, I’m sure Derek would love to see you in spandex.” She tilted her head and smiled venomously towards Derek. “Though I’m sure you wouldn’t mind seeing him in it, either.”</p><p>                Stiles laughed, but blushed. “Maybe for Halloween,” he said. He shook his head. He was liking her already. “So, be honest. How was that for a first impression?”</p><p>                Erica rolled her eyes. “Please, Stilinski, we went to high school together. We’re way past first impressions.” She snorted. “Though, I’m pretty sure yours was something like getting detention in a class we had together.”</p><p>                He shrugged and nodded. That definitely sounded like him back then. He still felt kind of bad for not recognizing her, though. “Shit, sorry. I hadn’t realized—”</p><p>                She waved it off. “Please. By the time I was worth noticing, I was under threat of bodily harm to leave you alone.”</p><p>                Stiles still frowned. He hated not recognizing people he clearly should. He wracked his brain for a minute before it clicked. “Wait,” he said, “Erica Reyes?” He’d known that people had taken notice of her during sophomore year, but he’d been kind of wrapped up in Scott starting to ignore him.</p><p>                Erica smiled almost sheepishly. “Yep, that’s me.” She bit her lip. “You should know. The betas never really had a choice about what to do with you. Our Alpha told us what to do, so we had to follow.” Her eyes snuck to the ground. “I wanted to talk to you, back then. But even when Derek was Alpha, he respected your dad and Scott’s wishes.”</p><p>                Stiles blinked at her. “Derek was an Alpha?”</p><p>                Erica chuckled. “Yeah. Didn’t work out, obviously. But he turned Isaac, Boyd, and me. Gave it up to—”</p><p>                A growl sounded from behind Stiles. He turned to find Derek stalking up towards them. “Erica,” he said warningly. “Don’t you have things to do?”</p><p>                Erica rolled her eyes but marched forward. “Fine,” she said, “I’ll let you spill your whole life story to him instead of from an incredibly well-meaning friend.” She pouted exaggeratedly at him. “I was only trying to talk you up, Der.” She winked at the both of them before sauntering off and calling behind her, “See you around, boys.”</p><p>                Derek scowled at her as she left, and Stiles rolled his eyes. “She seems cool,” he said, hand touching Derek’s crossed arms lightly.</p><p>                Derek’s face softened as he glanced back at Stiles, then at where Stiles was touching his arm. “I’d just rather you hear my story from me,” he said.</p><p>                Stiles nodded. “Okay. It’s probably too soon for tragic backstory stuff, anyway.” He smiled gently. “Though I gotta admit I can definitely see you as some kind of broody leader.”</p><p>                Derek glared at him with no heat behind it. “Shut up,” he muttered. He looked around the room briefly. “You gonna be good here?”</p><p>                Stiles smiled crookedly. “You think they’re gonna bullshit me after I literally shut their mouths for them?”</p><p>                Derek huffed a small laugh. “I’ll be back later,” he said. “Try not to blow up the building.”</p><p>                Stiles nodded somberly. “Yeah, I’m sure the owner would be pissed.” He barely held back a snicker at Derek’s responding glare. He whacked Derek’s chest lightly with the back of his hand. “Be safe, dude.”</p><p>                “Don’t call me dude,” he said softly. The air felt electrified as they kept each other’s gaze, neither looking away and leaning ever-so-slightly into the other’s space.</p><p>                “Stiles,” Michael called from the desk where the research crew was gathered, “Could I get your assistance with something?”</p><p>                Both Stiles and Derek cleared their throats and stepped away from each other. “I’m just gonna—” Derek said, pointing with his thumb towards the door. “I’ll see you later.” He sped towards the door with grace, leaving Stiles to huff and head towards the research area.</p><p>                Michael watched them with a glint in his eye. “Good to see you two are as hopeless as ever,” he said.</p><p>                Stiles frowned. “What?”</p><p>                Michael waved him off. “Never mind,” he said. “I just wanted to clarify a few points about these occurrences.”</p><p>                As Michael asked for clarifications and Allison, Lydia, and Kira poured over various tomes and notes, Stiles settled into a comfortable chair amongst them. Though he knew they still had a long way to go, for the first time in a long time he felt included.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Suicide- During Stiles' confrontation of the pack, he mentions his past suicide attempt outright.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>As always, let me know if I missed anything with tags and warnings! And warnings can be found in the end notes!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>                Over the next couple of hours, the group worked quietly together. The times that Stiles looked up from his own reading, he could tell that the group was practiced working alongside each other like this. Allison, Kira, and Lydia would occasionally sweep over to one another, book in hand, to discuss something they’d come across in hushed tones. Sometimes it was to clarify a confusing passage, sometimes to double check that a translation was accurate, and other times to even share theories about the nature of their enemy. Michael—ever an oppressively unnerving presence at his own end of the table, away from the others—would sometimes offer his own quiet thoughts about whatever was being said at the other end of the table, but was notably left out of most of the proceedings.</p><p>                Stiles, though unsettled by Michael's presence, hated that he was being so blatantly left out. Stiles was very familiar with how easily this group could exclude someone. He set his book on the table before standing up and moving towards the kitchen. He asked the group where to find the glasses as he went, and made his way toward the cupboard Allison indicated—to the right of the stove, above the knife block—and filled a glass using the water dispenser in the front of the fridge.</p><p>                When he returned to the research area, he pointedly grabbed his book and sat closer to Michael than he had been before, offering the man an encouraging smile as he plopped into the chair. Stiles chanced a glance at the girls, all of whom but Lydia were absorbed into their research. Lydia quirked her head and raised an eyebrow at him, but said nothing and returned her attention to the book in front of her.</p><p>                Stiles turned to Michael, who was regarding him openly, searching his face for something. After a few moments, the man nodded minutely before returning to his own work, smiling softly.</p><p>                The group continued to work for another hour or so, soft voices and the crinkle of pages filling the quiet in the loft. Then, it was like a switch had been flipped, and everyone's shoulders relaxed. Stiles hadn't even realized that he'd been tense, but the change was both abrupt and noticeable. Interestingly, the girls started to include Michael a lot more in their small conferences after that, and Michael began to initiate them as well.</p><p>                Stiles frowned and set down his own book—where he was currently learning from a fairly modern book about some of the most notable types of magic users and what differentiated them from one another, as well as some of the most famous magic users throughout history—and eyed Kira and Michael, hunched over a thick book, warily. "So you're including him now?" Stiles asked before his higher brain functions could stop him. His brain-to-mouth filter was nonexistent at the best of times, so he really couldn't be blamed given the events of the past couple of days. Besides, he was kind of sensitive about the whole "not being included" thing.</p><p>                Allison and Kira exchanged a brief, wide-eyed glance, while Lydia leveled a sharp look at him. "Stiles!" She admonished.</p><p>                Michael smiled softly and put a calming hand up. "It's quite alright, Lydia," he said, soft and sad. "He doesn't know, and we can't fault him for that." He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. "I told you before that I am unconditionally immortal, yes?" Michael opened his eyes, which flashed a bright, ice blue. Stiles flinched, but Michael ignored it and didn't even wait for Stiles to respond. "Those attuned to the supernatural in this world often find my presence to be uncomfortable. Can you recall feeling this upon our first meeting?"</p><p>                Stiles cleared his throat. "Yeah," he said, suddenly ashamed.</p><p>                Michael nodded curtly, jaw clenched and gaze holding Stiles' firmly. "People in tune with the supernatural instinctively dislike me because they recognize, in their heart of hearts, that I am an abomination. Nothing should be unconditionally immortal—it goes against the laws of nature—and yet, here I am. It's enough to make even the kindest and most compassionate people want to run away from me." He took a shaky breath. "With time and exposure, people get used to it. Think of it like walking into a room with a bad odor and spending time there until you don't smell it anymore." He stepped away from the table before stalking towards the stairs. "I'll be upstairs for a few moments. Kira, your translation seemed fine."</p><p>                As soon as Michael stepped onto the landing upstairs, the group pushed out a harsh breath. Now that he'd mentioned it, Stiles felt a little bad. He'd adjusted to being in the vicinity of the man over the past hour or so, and hadn't even noticed that he no longer felt his skin crawl. "So," he said, "I'm a dick."</p><p>                Lydia shook her head sadly. "Michael's right," she said, "You didn't know." She sighed. "He just needs a little time to calm himself down. He's usually pretty good about not letting this stuff get to him, but sometimes the reminders of his curse are just too much."</p><p>                "Curse?" Stiles asked.</p><p>                Lydia grimaced and nodded. "He doesn't like to talk about it much, but you don't gain unconditional immortality unless it's forced on you."</p><p>                Forced. The word echoed in Stiles’ head for a few moments. The grief behind the sentiment was a little too much for his already on-edge nerves. "Fuck," he said, nearly vibrating with sudden anger. The lights in the loft turned themselves on and began shining brightly—brighter than they were designed to. He didn't really care, though. He was too busy dealing with sudden waves of protective fury. He didn't even know the guy, but he suddenly wanted nothing more than to come face to face with whatever had shackled such a vibrant personality with everlasting life. What could anyone do to even deserve that kind of punishment? Who could hold themselves in high enough esteem to even consider doling that sort of thing out? What crime was worth tormenting someone with outliving every person they could ever hope to care about? The lights in the loft shone impossibly brighter as his thoughts spiraled.</p><p>                "Stiles," Lydia warned. "I understand you're upset—we all were when we first figured it out, so I get it. But you need to anchor yourself." One of the lightbulbs in a fixture over the dining room table exploded, sending a cascade of glass glittering down onto the light wood of the dining table. Lydia, goddess that she was, didn't even acknowledge it with a flinch. "I'm not trying to invalidate your feelings, Stiles. But you need to center yourself before you blow the building apart."</p><p>                Stiles grasped desperately for the chess piece in his pocket and began smoothing out the brow lines on the wolf's head. It helped, but only enough to get the lights back to regular brightness. "I hope the bastards that did it are rotting in hell," he said. The lights flickered briefly.</p><p>                "You're not the only one," Allison said, face rigid and cold in a way that reminded Stiles viscerally of her father. "He won't tell us what happened, though. He always tells us we can't help."</p><p>                "He pushes us away as soon as we even try," Kira added sadly.</p><p>                Stiles dropped his head and nodded a few times. It made sense, given what Michael was. Why let yourself get close to people if you knew you'd lose them? Especially if it had been a continuous cycle. The idea of facing all of that alone—an eternity without end, a cycle of loss so weighty it could break even the hardest of hearts—was mind-boggling. There had been a time when he was younger when he'd thought about it—Lydia would be loathe to admit it, but the Twilight mania had affected even her, and Stiles had been nothing if not a devoted follower in the Church of Martin—but he would never really be able to understand what it could mean for somebody actually living it.</p><p>                Stiles stood up abruptly. "I'm gonna go talk to him," he said decisively.</p><p>                Allison gave him a look that he'd come to call her "I'm too nice to say it, but you're an idiot" face, where she scrunched up her brow and gave a sort of derisive smile, but with kind eyes. "Good luck," she said. "But Stiles? Don't take it personally if he pushes you away. He does it to all of us."</p><p>                Stiles plastered on a totally fake smirk. He was absolutely expecting this to go terribly. "Yeah, well now he has the Stilinski charm to deal with." He saluted the girls before making his way towards the stairs, but his face fell as he climbed up and realized he had no idea what he was going to say.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>                Stiles climbed the stairs softly, wary of spooking Michael while he was upset. Stiles was surprised to find him in what seemed to be a guest room at the end of the hall. He'd expected Michael to head to the bathroom, but it made sense for him to be in this room given that it was farther from the stairs. The door was open, but Stiles knocked softly on the trim anyway. "Hey," he said quietly, "Can I come in?"</p><p>                Michael looked up at Stiles from where he was clutching a handful of the soft blue comforter, a few tears staining his face. He let go of it and swiped his hands at his eyes quickly. "Stiles!" He said, voice reaching for its usual mirth but falling short. "What is it? Did we find something?"</p><p>                Stiles shook his head and leaned against the wall just inside the doorway. "No, I just wanted to check on you." He chewed on his bottom lip for a second. "I'm sorry for bringing all that up. It can't be easy to talk about."</p><p>                Michael smiled sadly. "No," he admitted, "And it never gets any easier, either." He snapped his fingers, and a number of black rectangles flew from the ceiling and gathered on the bedspread beside him, forming a box of tissues. He grabbed a couple and began to clean himself up. "I don't think I've ever said," he said as he wiped at the corners of his eyes, "But I sincerely appreciate being able to use my abilities around you all."</p><p>                Stiles furrowed his brow. "You remember I learned about all this yesterday, right?"</p><p>                Michael waved it off. "Regardless," he said, snapping and sending the tissue box away in another flurry of black rectangles, which flew up towards the ceiling, but dissipated before they hit it. "I can't usually use my powers like I can in Beacon Hills. It's nice that I don't have to hide that aspect of myself here."</p><p>                Stiles nodded, looked down, and cleared his throat. "Look," he said, "I'm sorry for bringing it up down there. You didn't owe me any kind of explanation."</p><p>                Michael huffed softly. "You're an idiot if you think it's some great burden to make sure my—" He cleared his throat softly. "—My allies are informed." He laughed softly and briefly. "I suppose I simply wasn't expecting to have to explain anything about my..." He paused. "Situation today."</p><p>                Stiles crossed his arms and shrugged. "Still. You didn't have to. I'm not owed your life story."</p><p>                Michael lifted his head and settled a calculating look at him. "Just because something isn't owed doesn't mean it can't be given." He shook his head, scrunched his brow, and looked at the floor. "You value truth, and I want to give that to you. As much as I'm able."</p><p>                Stiles furrowed his brow. "How can you trust me so much when you just met me?"</p><p>                Michael laughed, sharp and tinged with a hint of bitterness. "Call it instinct," he said. "Either way, you—more than anyone here, arguably—deserve a portrait of who I am." He took a deep breath. "You don't know me," he said, voice tight, "And you haven't had a chance for my actions to speak for me, so my story is all that I can offer." There was a vulnerability in his eyes that oddly made Stiles want to comfort him.</p><p>                Stiles shook his head. "Not necessary, man. Share it when you're ready, not because you think I need it. Because I don't. You should only give people parts of yourself when you're ready to, not when they are." He huffed a small, bitter laugh. "Speaking from experience, being able to be the voice behind your own story is highly underrated."</p><p>                Michael laughed, dabbing again at his eyes with the half-crumpled tissues. "You certainly do know something about that," he said. He brought the tissues into his lap, ducked his head, and fiddled with them. "I am sorry for that, by the way. Had I known that your path would lead you where it did I—"</p><p>                "Like you said, we don't know each other," he said, shrugging. "Don't beat yourself up about it."</p><p>                Michael flinched. He clenched his jaw and looked up at Stiles. "The first thing you should know about me is that I beat myself up about everything," he said, tone seeming to aim for joking, but falling entirely too flat. Instead, he sounded almost defeated—resigned, even. "You deserve so much better than to be small town gossip, Stiles."</p><p>                Stiles offered him a small smile. "I appreciate it," he said. He waved his arms dismissively. "Enough about tragic backstories for today. Until it's absolutely necessary to acknowledge otherwise, you and I are just regular guys."</p><p>                Michael laughed, a hint of brightness returning. "If I recall, you're a big fan of curly fries, yes? Can't get much more 'normal' than burgers and fries. Perhaps we can convince a certain broody someone to pick up dinner on his way back."</p><p>                Stiles bit his lip and ducked his head at the mention of his mate. "Yeah, maybe."</p><p>                Michael regarded him curiously. "You already like him quite a bit, don't you?" He asked tentatively.</p><p>                Stiles shrugged. "Deaton said our bond could get pretty intense."</p><p>                "It's more than that," Michael accused, though not unkindly.</p><p>                 A blush crept up Stiles' neck. "Maybe," he said.</p><p>                Michael smiled softly, stood up, and crossed the room towards the door. Without looking at Stiles, he paused in the doorway. "I'm glad that you have a chance at happiness, Stiles," he said softly. "You deserve that much." He departed the room without another word, leaving Stiles to wonder why he felt like he was missing something.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>                Half an hour later, back downstairs, Stiles sat with his head resting on his hand, elbow sitting on the table while he tried to power through the same book he'd been working on about the various kinds of magic users. He looked up for a moment and blinked a few times to chase away the tiredness from all the reading. Lydia and Allison were consulting over a small purple notebook—likely notes of some kind—while Kira seemed to have abandoned her book for a few moments to text someone. Michael was pouring over yellowed pages written in what looked to Stiles like Arabic, which was oddly unsurprising. Everyone at the table seemed to have certain languages they were proficient in—French and Spanish for Allison, Japanese for Kira, and several dead languages for Lydia—but Michael seemed to be fluent in a larger selection. It made sense given that he was centuries old, so he'd likely had all sorts of time to master skills.</p><p>                He sighed and slumped down. He'd made his way through a large chunk of the book he'd been reading, and had just finished reading about Sorcerers. It wasn't exactly the most compelling thing he'd ever read, but the information itself was interesting. It was still weird to think about the things in the book being real, though, even if he was one of them.</p><p>                He turned the page carefully—he'd tried to be more careful with Deaton's books since he'd dropped them on the floor earlier—but froze when he saw what the next entry was.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>                Sparks. These rare and sometimes powerful magic users are noteworthy in that they derive their power not from an external source—such as how Druids draw power from nature or Warlocks from their covenant—but instead from within themselves. This pool of energy—labeled a Spark, in most circles—allows the individual to channel power using their own body as a conduit. Sparks are further unique in that while they are always born and can never be made, they are also entirely human—a combination which is uncommon amongst spellcasters, though not unheard of with other supernatural creatures, such as with the Banshee. Further, Sparks are connected to their abilities through instinct and emotion rather than through study and practice, though these may allow a Spark to further harness their inherent abilities. Each Spark's potential lies within the size of their pool of energy—the larger the Spark, the more powerful and dangerous they could become—but this Spark also lends towards their greatest weakness. A Spark is limited in the amount of energy that may be channeled at one time if they use no conduit other than their body by the frailty of that body—though they are more than capable of learning to use other mediums of spellcraft, such as runes, which are less draining than using the body. The Spark and the body may be trained to use larger amounts at once, but the Spark will always be limited in some capacity by their body. Were Sparks found in a more durable creature, such as a Werewolf, the Spark would be capable of wreaking unfathomable destruction, provided a large enough Spark. This could never be the case, however, given that Sparks are born human and possess a nearly immutable form—though they are not immune to possession by other supernatural creatures. For example, if the Spark were to be bitten by an Alpha Werewolf, the Spark would reject the bite, and would either become gravely ill or else would be killed in the attempt. Sparks may be powerful allies given the chance—and may rarely be found in the position of Emissary within Werewolf packs—but they may also make dangerous enemies. Beware a tainted or Dark Spark, for they are both incredibly dangerous as well as formidable foes. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>                Stiles read it three times before he sat back heavily in the chair—he hadn't even realized he'd leaned so far forward—and slowly let out a big breath. It was a strangely disorienting experience to read a description of what could be summed up as his supernatural species. The summary of what a Spark was didn't necessarily tell him what to do with it, but it was certainly a start. He closed the book with a thud and ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the back to ground himself. He'd finish it later.</p><p>                The sudden noise had apparently attracted the group's attention, and a hand came gently to rest on his shoulder. He closed his eyes and breathed for a few moments, grateful for the small comfort. "Fuck," he said, "This is all real."</p><p>                "You decide this after having performed magic and having seen literal werewolves?" Lydia asked from over his shoulder.</p><p>                He shook his head and turned, her hand dropping from his shoulder as he faced her. "Honestly I was half expecting it all to be a dream," he admitted quietly. "I mean. Come on? Werewolves? Magic? A super hot dude interested in me? And on top of all of that, some supernatural creature maybe targeting me for some reason? I've been home for less than a week, Lyds. It's been kind of intense." He frowned and shook his head, confused. Why the fuck did he keep calling her that? "Lydia," he corrected himself firmly.</p><p>                She rolled her eyes. "It doesn't bother me, Stiles. Don't worry about it." She moved over to lean against the desk, sparing a glance at the rest of the group—which Stiles did as well, and the rest of them seemed to be focusing a little too intently on the texts in front of them—before turning the full force of her attention on him. It was kind of impressive how intimidating it was. "What finally convinced you it's not all a dream?"</p><p>                Unable to keep looking at her, Stiles grabbed a small spiral notebook he'd been given to take notes. He hadn't really used it much yet, but it could serve as something to do with his hands to avoid Lydia's unrelenting scrutiny. He grabbed the pencil next to it and started doodling absentmindedly. "I'm not entirely sure," he said quietly. "But something about reading in general seemed to help. And reading in particular about what I am just, I don't know, made it all come crashing in."</p><p>                "You can't read in dreams," she said a little distantly. He looked up at her, a question on the tip of his tongue. It died, though, when he recognized how shaken she seemed. "Stiles? Why did you draw this?"</p><p>                He looked back at the paper he'd been drawing on to see a large symbol that looked like a rather rigid number two. He wasn't sure where it'd come from. He hadn't intended to draw anything in particular. "I don't know," he admitted, "It just happened."</p><p>                The others weren't even pretending not to listen anymore, and Lydia grabbed the notebook to hold it up and show the others. As soon as she did, Allison dropped the pencil she was holding and they all looked like they wanted to throw up, Michael included. "Could he have seen?" Michael asked, even more serious than Stiles had seen him when discussing business in the pack meeting the previous night.</p><p>                Lydia shook her head fiercely. "We wiped the marks," she said, almost more to herself than in response. "Even before that we made sure to wear concealer. Even Scott."</p><p>                "Marks?" Stiles asked, entirely confused. What was so significant about the doodle?</p><p>                "Stiles?" Kira asked, calm and firm, but there was an edge that was so wrong coming from her. "Where did you see this? Think."</p><p>                Stiles stared at the symbol, grasping desperately at where it had come from. He recognized it—could tell somehow that it was the kanji for "self"—and he knew that he'd seen it before. It took him a few seconds before he could grasp the answer. "My dreams," he said quietly. "I've seen it in my dreams off and on for years."</p><p>                "Shit," Michael said. "Of course." When everyone looked at him in question, Michael shook his head. "I can't say," he said sadly.</p><p>                Lydia huffed exasperatedly. "Of course it'd choose now—choose this—to obscure."</p><p>                "What?" Stiles asked. The lights flickered.</p><p>                Michael considered for a moment. "Stiles is in no danger from this," he assured. "That much I can offer. But I am prevented from discussing this particular situation further by the fact that I am simply not allowed to." He huffed. "So much for 'normal,' Stiles, but my curse prevents me from sharing information sometimes."</p><p>                "What?" Stiles said again. "What kind of curse does that?"</p><p>                Michael smiled amusedly at Stiles' indignation. "I share the sentiment most of the time," he said. "Due to the nature of my existence—as well as some other factors that I cannot disclose for similar reasons—I am only allowed to share certain information when the universe deems it acceptable."</p><p>                Stiles slouched in his chair. "Well that's incredibly inconvenient."</p><p>                Lydia chewed her lip distractedly. "It is inconvenient, but not hopeless. It means that either he'll be able to tell us when the time is right, or else we'll be able to find the information ourselves before it becomes a problem."</p><p>                Michael nodded. "We'll just have to be patient for the moment and focus on this week's monster." He flipped the page of the book in front of him.</p><p>                "Are we sure that it hasn't escaped?" Kira asked. "Last time it happened you weren't able to warn us about it either, Michael. And it almost got Allison killed."</p><p>                Allison's hand flew to her stomach and clutched her loose-fitting white blouse underneath her black jacket, but Michael seemed to pay this no mind. "She's here, and that's what matters." He closed his eyes and ducked his head, hands clasped together. "You know that I hate not being able to share what I know."</p><p>                Allison smiled at him, sad but warm. "We know," she said.</p><p>                "Stiles," Kira said, undeterred, "Have you had issues with insomnia, sleepwalking, or any lost time lately?"</p><p>                Stiles shook his head. "No, I've actually been sleeping pretty well aside from the occasional nightmare." At the look the group shared, Stiles clarified, "I don't think it's supernatural. I've had pretty consistent nightmares for years, ever since—" He paused, gulping. "Since sophomore year."</p><p>                Lydia scrunched her brow. "Maybe your magic responded to Scott getting turned?"</p><p>                Stiles shrugged. "They're not that bad anymore," he said. "Either way, why does it matter that I have nightmares? Everyone does."</p><p>                "Nightmares—as well as the other things I asked about—are good indicators of a creature my family is kind of... sensitive about," Kira said, more serious than Stiles had ever seen her. It was more than a little unnerving.</p><p>                "The pack dealt with it years ago," Lydia explained, "So you doodling something we associate with it is just a little rattling."</p><p>                Stiles was about to ask about the creature they were talking about, but something tickled the back of his throat. He cleared it, which helped, but a buzz started in his mind instead—a single word echoing throughout his consciousness that screamed at him to speak, to let it out. He covered his ears as his brain screamed, the buzz moving throughout his body until it felt like his entire existence was being consumed by the need to release the word coursing through every cell of his body. The buzz turned into a burning roar of pain that ripped the word from his mouth—a single word that rippled through the room like a crashing tsunami. "Nogitsune," he whimpered before everything went black.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Suicide- Brief allusion to Stiles' previous suicide attempt during his conversation with Michael.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>As always, notes at the end will have some content warnings. Also, if I missed anything please let me know!<br/>Note that this chapter has a couple of extra end notes with some extra warnings. We gettin into it now, folks.<br/>PLEASE be kind. My drive to finish this is already starting to flag, and I'm doing this for fun anyway.<br/>Anyhoo, enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>                Stiles stood in the middle of a clearing in the preserve near a large tree stump. He had no idea how he knew it was the preserve, he simply felt it like an instinct. The clearing was silent, but a quiet wind whipped around him, rustling the grass and trees. The stump made him want to run away, but he couldn't help but stare at it. Something pulsed from within, a gentle light tinged with edges of shadow that called out to him.</p><p>                A twig snapped behind him, and he whipped around only to find himself face to face with his mirror image. The other him mimicked his movements, but looked younger, his face fuller than Stiles' was currently, eyes less sunken even though they still had dark bags. The other him stopped mirroring him after a second, and instead stilled and stood straight, glowering at him. It spoke a short phrase, something that Stiles would categorize as Japanese, but that he instinctively knew to mean, "Let me in."</p><p>                Stiles blinked, and he found himself instead standing just in front of the door to a bank vault, which opened to reveal the mess of Erica's blonde curls dangling around her lifeless brown eyes, blood staining her trendy clothes. Stiles wanted to throw up, so he turned away from it.</p><p>                He was back in the clearing, the other him standing closer this time. "Let me in," it said again.</p><p>                Stiles blinked, and now found himself in the dark of Derek's loft, Boyd standing before him with a sharp set of claws piercing him from behind. Blood spilled from his mouth and ran down his front, joining the streams from his wounds on the floor.</p><p>                He turned away again, and again there was the other him, closer still. "Let me in."</p><p>                Another turn brought him to the middle of a street, Scott clutching a lifeless Allison in his arms and sobbing into her shoulder.</p><p>                Turn. "Let me in."</p><p>                Turn. Lydia.</p><p>                Turn. "Let me in."</p><p>                Turn. His dad and Melissa.</p><p>                Turn. "Let me in."</p><p>                Every turn brought a new horror, a new member of the pack dead before his eyes, the constant refrain of his other self stabbing his heart. The tears flowed freely as all these people—even though he was mad at most of them, and didn't know the rest—laid dead before him.</p><p>                Finally, he turned from his other self expecting yet another new location, but this time he faced the stump again, and a sob escaped him. Derek was spread out on his stomach on top of the stump, bloody, broken, and lifeless. It made him want to scream and cry and try everything he could to bring his mate back. He felt, suddenly, the lack of the warmth that he'd come to associate with their bond, and he grabbed desperately at the cloth hanging over his heart. He'd never felt so alone in his life. Derek was gone, and it was breaking him. The wind whipped harder and harder, thunder crashed nearby, and rain began to pelt him as Derek's blood seeped into the soil at the base of the stump.</p><p>                "Let me in," the other him breathed into his ear.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>                Stiles jolted awake, sitting up from the soft bed where he'd apparently been laying. His heart was beating wildly, and his clothes clung to his body where he'd been sweating. His neck was especially bad since the sweat seemed to have mixed with pooled tears. Before dealing with any of the discomfort, though, he whipped his hands in front of his face and counted his fingers.</p><p>                When he counted ten overall and was confident he was actually awake, he wiped at his face and neck with his hands before wiping them off on his pant legs. He was still in his clothes, but he was in Derek's room instead of the main area of the loft. Someone must have carried him up after he passed out. Why had he passed out? He remembered talking to the group about a creature they'd faced in the past, then he'd been about to ask a question when—</p><p>                He shivered. "Nogitsune," he whispered. The word came easier now, but with it a spike of anxiety driven into his skull. Whatever the thing was, he had no intention of ever getting involved with it. How had he even known anything about it? And what about the dream he'd just had? What was any of that all about? The thought of all the blood and his dead friends and family made him sick to his stomach. He hoped he'd never have to see anything like that in reality. Dreams were manageable.</p><p>                His stomach growled loudly, a slight pain forcing him to clutch at it. He couldn't have been out for long, could he? He tried to grab his phone from his pocket, but it wasn't there. The wolf-head chess piece he'd been using as an anchor was missing, as was his house key. He whipped around looking for them, and was relieved to find them on the nightstand next to where he'd woken up. He pocketed the chess piece and house key, and thumbed at his phone to wake it up. It told him it was nearly eight, so he'd been out for several hours.</p><p>                He seemed to have been added to the pack's group chat, which had mostly consisted of people talking about his condition for the past few hours. It was simultaneously irritating and vaguely flattering that people were so concerned. He sent off a quick message saying he was awake and feeling alright before the quiet pad of socked feet dragged his attention to the open doorway.</p><p>                Derek peeked in cautiously before slipping into the room and shutting the door. "Hey," he said softly, the bond waking up, warm with a tinge of worry. "How are you feeling?"</p><p>                Stiles relaxed against the veritable nest of pillows behind him, basking in the warmth of Derek's presence. "Better now that you're here," he said. "Sorry to worry you."</p><p>                Derek made his way over to the bed and sat down on the other side from where Stiles was laying down, feet planted on the floor but body twisted to face him. "I'm just glad you're okay," he said. "Honestly, I think it was worse for the people who watched it happen." He observed Stiles for a few moments. "Are you in any pain?"</p><p>                Stiles shrugged. "Hunger pangs mostly. I seriously think my stomach might try eating itself if I don't get some food pronto, though."</p><p>                Derek rolled his eyes. "I got dinner from Sharon's, but you were still out when I got back so it's in the oven staying warm."</p><p>                Stiles furrowed his brow. "Sharon's?"</p><p>                Derek gave him a complicated eyebrow scrunch that he decided to interpret as saying "how are you a real person" before saying, "The diner right by where we met last night? Scott says you really like the food there."</p><p>                Stiles bopped himself on the forehead with the heel of his palm. Duh. "Right, of course, I know that," he lied. Based on the fond disbelief radiating through the bond, Derek wasn't buying it for a second. Stiles rolled his eyes, but smiled. "Thank you," he said, pushing himself out of the frankly ridiculously comfortable bed. "Seriously, though, it's crazy how hungry I am right now. Even though I still feel like I could sleep more."</p><p>                Derek nodded, getting up as well. "Deaton came by while you were out. Said it seemed like magic exhaustion."</p><p>                "Magic exhaustion?" Stiles said, leading as they made their way towards the staircase. "I didn't even do anything right before I passed out, let alone anything big enough to warrant an insta-nap."</p><p>                "That's what the group said," Derek said as they made their way down the staircase. "They told us what happened, and Deaton has a theory. He wants to talk to you before he shares it, though."</p><p>                Stiles rolled his eyes. "Of course he does." They got to the bottom of the staircase to find Deaton and Michael sitting at the dining table. Deaton seemed to be waiting patiently, while Michael was fiddling with his phone. "So what's the prognosis, Doc?" Stiles asked as he padded towards the table. Derek slipped past them and headed for the kitchen, and Michael looked up from his phone, which he set on the table gently.</p><p>                "You've found yourself on the receiving end of a bad case of magic exhaustion," Deaton explained. "Before you collapsed, you used a great deal of magic. Blacking out was your body's way of protecting you before you did severe harm to it. You may also find that you're incredibly hungry, which is a result of your body attempting to restore the energy you used."</p><p>                Stiles shrugged. "Like I told Derek, I didn't even use any magic before I blacked out."</p><p>                Deaton glanced at Michael, who grimaced. "Perhaps not intentionally," Deaton said. "I'm told you spoke the name of a creature you should have no knowledge of."</p><p>                Stiles nodded. "The Nogitsune, yeah. But I don't actually know anything other than the name."</p><p>                Michael and Deaton exchanged a look. "How did you come across this knowledge?" Deaton asked.</p><p>                Stiles shrugged. "No idea," he said truthfully, "It just kind of came to me. Really painfully, I might add."</p><p>                "It would seem that your magic deemed it pertinent for you to have this information," Deaton said, "And it used a great amount of energy and effort to bring it to your conscious mind. Though I can't understand where it would have had access to this information in the first place."</p><p>                Michael seemed to consider for a few moments before a small, wry smile formed. "Magic has been known to bring up buried or supernaturally repressed memories, yes?"</p><p>                Deaton tilted his head slightly. "I most certainly have never performed any kind of memory alteration upon Mr. Stilinski, and there is only one Alpha who would have had reason to do so following the Nogitsune's reign of terror."</p><p>                Derek returned just then with a plate bearing a thick burger with curly fries fanned out beside it. He set it at the end of the table nearest the kitchen. He turned his attention to Deaton, but stayed by the place he'd set up for Stiles. "That was my first thought. Scott says he never needed to do anything since Stiles steered clear of that whole mess somehow."</p><p>                Stiles went over to the place Derek had set, murmured a soft "thank you," and touched Derek's arm briefly as he sat down. Derek gave him a soft smile before turning back to the other two, and Stiles focused for a moment on the plate in front of him and attacked the food ferociously. He swallowed a mouthful of curly fries, moaning softly as he did, which caused a flicker of interest in he and Derek's bond. It sent a shiver through him, and he shook his head to try to clear any naughty thoughts that might try to form. So not the time. "So if nobody messed with my memory," he said, "Where did it come from? The knowledge can't have just sprung up out of nowhere."</p><p>                Michael grinned at him. "Precisely," he said. "What about your dreams? You mentioned that was where you learned the 'self' kanji."</p><p>                Stiles nodded as he took a thoughtful bite of burger. "Yeah. That reminds me. I had a downright terrifying nightmare while I was out."</p><p>                Derek and Deaton exchanged a look. "What kind of nightmare?" Deaton asked.</p><p>                Stiles shrugged. "There was this weird magic-y tree stump in the middle of the preserve. And this other me kept saying something in what I think was Japanese. Don't ask me how I know this, but I'm pretty sure it was saying something like 'let me in.'" He shivered and set his burger down, not particularly inclined to keep eating. "Then I saw basically everyone in the pack die."</p><p>                Deaton looked alarmed for the first time since Stiles had known him. "You dreamt of the Nemeton? What about it?"</p><p>                Stiles gulped and flicked his eyes to Derek, a buzz starting under his skin. He shook his head. "It was calling to me? And the other me kept getting closer to both me and it. And then I saw Derek—" He cut himself off, voice breaking.</p><p>                Michael took a sharp breath, eyes wide. He cleared his throat and shook his head. "He shouldn't have a connection to the Nemeton," he said. "Why would it appear to him like this?"</p><p>                "I'm not sure," Deaton said. "I don't believe we are in danger from the Nogitsune. But something about this nightmare perplexes me." He searched Stiles' face for a few moments. "Would you be willing to recount at least one of these deaths you witnessed? Or was it all as a group?"</p><p>                Stiles shook his head. "Usually just individuals. Like Erica in a bank vault, and Allison held by Scott in the middle of a street." He shivered. "Those were the least gruesome ones."</p><p>                Derek's eyes went wide and his eyebrows shot towards his hairline. "A bank vault?" He looked to Deaton and Michael. "We found Erica, Boyd, and Cora in a bank vault when we were facing the Alpha Pack."</p><p>                Michael nodded. "And if I recall correctly, Allison had been seriously injured by an Oni when she and Scott shared a moment in the middle of the street that solidified their mate bond."</p><p>                "But neither of them died there," Derek said. "Why would he be seeing them dead? They're fine. Not to mention he wasn't involved with any of it." He shook his head. "What does any of it mean?"</p><p>                "Could it be prophetic?" Stiles asked.</p><p>                Deaton shook his head. "Prophecy requires a lot more forethought to accomplish, even with a strong Spark." He paused for a moment, contemplative. "I have to admit, I'm a little stumped by what any of this could mean."</p><p>                Derek scowled. "The creature takes priority, then," he said. "If these dreams have no connection to that, then we deal with it after the creature is taken care of." He turned his attention to Michael. "Is there any progress identifying it?"</p><p>                Michael shook his head. "Nothing conclusive yet, but Allison, Lydia, and I are on it. I believe they're intending to spend an all-nighter researching. I'll be joining them after this."</p><p>                Derek nodded. "The moment you find anything, have Allison or Lydia text the pack chat." He turned to Deaton. "Anything from your contacts?"</p><p>                "Not yet," Deaton said. "I suspect it will be a few days before I get anything, but I will let you know as soon as I do."</p><p>                Derek nodded. "Good. I'll update Scott. We'll see you both later."</p><p>                Deaton left quickly after that, giving everyone a slight nod, but still looking a little on edge. Michael seemed hesitant to go, looking between the two of them with worry apparent on his face. "You're sure you'll both be fine alone?" He asked finally.</p><p>                "We'll be fine," Derek said. "Why? Do you feel like you need to be here?"</p><p>                Michael considered for a moment, then relaxed. "No," he said, letting out a relieved breath. "But I do feel like I need to stay in Beacon Hills."</p><p>                Derek frowned. "But that hasn't happened since—"</p><p>                "Since the Nogitsune," Michael interrupted, "I know." He sighed. "I don't like any of this. My instincts are telling me I'm needed here, and I have no pressing concerns elsewhere. But at the same time, I know in my gut that I won't be able to help you all fight this creature, whatever it is."</p><p>                "You can't help?" Stiles asked incredulously.</p><p>                Michael looked grief-stricken. "I can't always interfere," he said. "I'll be able to offer support, but no more than that. Whatever's happening right now? It's big enough that I'm forbidden from protecting any of you." His voice cracked. "Please stay safe," he said quietly, immense sorrow bleeding into his words. Before Derek or Stiles could respond, a pillar of whirling shadows engulfed the man, and he disappeared within it as the wisps faded away.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>                Stiles inhaled the rest of the food once he and Derek were alone again. He didn't particularly want to eat, but his body had taken to complaining about it again. The burger and fries seemed to do the trick for now, but he knew he'd also have to eat a hearty breakfast the next day. Once he got his plate in the dishwasher, he returned to the main room and plopped onto the couch next to Derek. He pulled his legs up onto the couch and leaned against his mate. "Ugh," he said, "Today was a lot."</p><p>                Derek pulled his arm up and carefully wrapped it around Stiles. Derek was warm and comfortable, and all Stiles could do was sigh into the comfort. The bond thrummed with affection. It felt beyond right. "It was eventful, that's for sure." He trailed his fingers lightly along Stiles' arm, which made Stiles shudder pleasantly. "Maybe tomorrow will be calmer."</p><p>                Stiles snorted. "Is that likely with a supernatural creeper impersonating people?"</p><p>                "No," Derek admitted.</p><p>                Stiles shoved his shoulder into Derek lightly. "As I thought," he said. "Maybe once this asshole is dealt with we'll be able to go on a date without the interruptions and the maiming."</p><p>                "Despite the paralysis spell," Derek said, "All it did was rattle us and gave me what was basically a paper cut." Stiles frowned, and something must have passed through the bond because Derek shifted to look at him. "What's wrong?"</p><p>                Stiles sighed. "I'm just worried about what happens if this thing decides to actually hurt someone. Like, what could it be after?"</p><p>                Derek shrugged and began rubbing soothing circles into Stiles' shoulder. "We'll figure it out."</p><p>                Stiles snuggled more into Derek's side—the dude was seriously like a furnace—and sighed contentedly. They were quiet for a few moments, and though Stiles generally hated silence, he was strangely okay with it. Being around Derek was comfortable, and the soft sounds of Derek's breathing combined with the gentle rise and fall of his chest as Stiles leaned against him were enough to make Stiles want to just bask in the moment. He knew he'd get fidgety soon—would probably start to ramble about nonsense to try to fill the quiet loft—but for now he was okay with just existing alongside his mate.</p><p>                His mate. The very idea was enough to make him giddy. Just yesterday he'd been a little freaked out about the idea, even if he'd quickly come to accept it given how right it'd felt. And it felt so right it didn't even scare him anymore. It wasn't like this was love, and it wasn't like they'd had sex yet—though Stiles wouldn't be opposed to that at all—but the connection they shared felt somehow deeper than any words could ever hope to describe.</p><p>                Stiles smiled softly and turned his head to bury his nose against Derek's chest before quietly inhaling. Derek smelled clean, but also a little like the woods. It wasn't entirely unpleasant. He could get used to doing things like this.</p><p>                The door opening was sudden enough to startle them both. Derek didn't seem particularly alarmed, just surprised, so Stiles didn't let himself get too worked up about it. At least until he realized that the person butting in on their quiet moment together was his dad, who looked down at them on the couch together with a carefully blank expression that had Stiles scrambling to get up. He glared at Derek. "You could have warned me he was coming," he hissed at his mate.</p><p>                Derek had the decency to look apologetic. "I was too focused on you to hear him."</p><p>                Stiles' dad shook his head as if to try to clear the mental image of what he'd walked in on. Stiles was suddenly incredibly grateful that he and Derek hadn't kissed yet. He would have been mortified if his dad had walked in on them making out. "Sorry to interrupt," his dad said, "But you'll forgive me for wanting to check on my only son. Who, last I heard, was unconscious."</p><p>                Stiles bit his lip and looked back and forth between his dad and his mate. He kind of wanted to talk to his dad alone, so he made a small head motion at Derek. His mate nodded understandingly, grabbed Stiles forearm gently, squeezed, and said, "I'll give you two some time," before heading up the stairs.</p><p>                Stiles gestured towards the couch, which his dad went towards hesitantly. The two of them sat down—though not nearly as closely as he and Derek had just been—and silence fell for a minute. His dad had never caught him doing something like this before—not that there'd ever been the chance in the first place, but still. He could understand why his dad might be struggling with it.</p><p>                His dad finally cleared his throat as if to say something, but fell short with his mouth hanging open. He shook his head again. "You two got... close," his dad said. "I thought you two just met yesterday, Stiles." It was admonishing, but there was an edge to it that Stiles wasn't sure how to interpret.</p><p>                Stiles shrugged. "I told you we're kind of soulmates, right?" His dad just nodded, so he continued. "Doing stuff like that, being around him? It just feels... right. There's no other way to describe it. Like, I know I don't really know him, and God knows it's too soon for love, but it's something." He shook his head. "I'm not explaining it very well, but it's the truth."</p><p>                His dad nodded slowly. "I know it won't ever be something I can understand, kid. I've been in this game long enough to know when I'm out of my depth." He quirked his mouth into a small smile. "I'm glad you two have each other," he admitted. "Derek... Derek's had a rough life. You both deserve a little good, I think."</p><p>                Stiles looked at his hands in his lap and smiled softly. "Thanks, dad." He grabbed the hem of his shirt and played with it for a few moments, brows furrowing. He looked up at his dad cautiously. "I wanted to ask you about something."</p><p>                His dad put on his "serious" face. "Okay."</p><p>                Before he could think better of it, Stiles blurted. "Why did you keep my magic from me?" When his dad's eyebrows shot up at the question, he continued to ramble. "It's just. I get why you kept werewolves and stuff from me. I mean, if even half the creatures I overheard them talking about earlier are real, I'm more than a little intimidated about everything. But I know that it was bound to be something I had to get involved in sooner or later given how literally everyone I care about seems to be involved in it."</p><p>                "Stiles," his dad said gently enough he barely even registered it.</p><p>                "And mom must have been a Spark too, right? Since they're born and not made, and that sort of requires at least one parent to pass that gene along, and I know for a fact you've never had a magical bone in your body, and—"</p><p>                His dad rested a hand on his arm. "Breathe, son." Stiles did, taking a few deep breaths. He hadn't even realized his anxiety had ratcheted while he'd been rambling. His dad gave him an appraising look. "I know any kind of 'I did it to protect you' would be a pretty poor excuse at this point, right?"</p><p>                Stiles rolled his eyes. "I think it's kind of a given at this point, dad."</p><p>                His dad smiled fondly and was silent for a minute before responding. "I wanted you to have the chance to be a kid," he admitted finally, "To be able to stay out of all the supernatural crap."</p><p>                Stiles huffed. "Hate to break it to you, dad, but I wouldn't have ever been able to stay away from it completely. Did Deaton ever explain about my magic?"</p><p>                His dad shook his head and said, "No."</p><p>                "Apparently," Stiles said, "I was born with it. It's as much a part of me as having brown eyes. My magic is tied to instinct and emotion, so it could have activated at any point, for any number of reasons." He shook his head. "Did you really think ignoring it would really make something that's basically a part of my biology go away? You could have at least given me a choice."</p><p>                His dad looked stumped at that. He wiped a hand down his face. "I screwed up, kid, I admit. Don't think for a second I don't blame myself for those choices. I want to do right by you—always have, even if I didn't go about it the right way looking back. I think, over time, it was just easier to stick with what we'd been doing than try anything else." He hung his head. "Stiles, I'm ashamed for what my mistakes cost you," his dad said, voice breaking.</p><p>                It took Stiles what must have been a full minute to process the apology fully. A horrifying idea dawned on him at the end of it that hurt him more than he could have realized. "Dad," he finally said, voice breaking. "Do you blame yourself for the breakdown?"</p><p>                His dad looked grief-stricken for the first time since the night he'd found Stiles half-dead in the bathroom, and a single tear rolled down his cheek. It shook Stiles to his core to see his dad like this. He'd done remarkably well keeping himself together over the past year, even during the joint therapy sessions. "Stiles," his dad said shakily, "Son, I failed you left and right. You were hurting and none of us saw it. All we cared about was some stupid fantasy world where you were safer being kept at a distance from everything." He clasped his hands in front of him and leaned forward to press his forehead down. "We almost lost you, kid, and I'm just so scared that you're gonna get hurt now because we made the wrong choices before."</p><p>                Stiles, for once, had no idea what to say. He scooted down the couch until he was next to his dad and forced him into a fierce hug. "Dad," he said, voice thick. "No one person holds the blame. It was a culmination of bad choices and poor communication. I never told anyone what was bothering me, even Scott. I just let everyone shut me out, I didn't even put up a fight."</p><p>                His dad shook his head. "You told me that Scott wasn't hanging out with you anymore, I should have—"</p><p>                "What? Forced him to hang out with me? Gave him a stern talking to? It wouldn't have worked, and you know it. Scott is many things, but attentive isn't one of them. Unless you're Allison."</p><p>                His dad chuckled wetly. "That kid could stand a good kick in the butt every once and a while."</p><p>                Stiles swallowed thickly. "Dad," he said, anxiety prickling under his skin over what he was about to admit. He'd never really told his dad about this before, but it felt important now, somehow. "I let everyone drift away for a reason. I—I didn't fight for it because I didn't think I was worth fighting for. Because I thought everyone would be better off. I was just this hyperactive, annoying guy that nobody could stand, so who was I to try to hold on?"</p><p>                His dad grabbed Stiles' arms and wrenched them apart so he could look Stiles in the eye. "Anyone who ever made you think that way is an idiot, kid. You're one of the best people I've ever known." He pulled Stiles back into a hug. "I know you don't believe this, son, but you're a good kid and you're worth more than you give yourself credit for."</p><p>                Stiles huffed. "You're my dad. You have to say that." He paused and sighed. "I love you, dad. I'm not saying everything's okay, but you should know how much it means for me to hear that you regret what you did. You're not to blame, though, okay? I made choices too. I'm just sorry it was you who had to find—" He lost his voice, gulped, and buried his face in his dad's shoulder.</p><p>                "Don't you ever be sorry for hurting, son. You just promise me you'll let me fight for you."</p><p>                Stiles breathed out a small, "I promise," as he and his dad continued to cling to each other.</p><p> </p><p>* * *</p><p> </p><p>                After his dad left, Stiles made his way upstairs. He was frankly exhausted and seriously needed to get to bed before too long. His heart fluttered at the thought of maybe sharing a bed with Derek, though he knew there was also the guest bedroom. He kind of hoped Derek wanted to sleep beside him tonight, though.</p><p>                When he walked into Derek's room, Derek was lying in bed with headphones in. His eyes were closed, but he opened them just as soon as their bond started thrumming with the proximity. "Hey," he said, taking the ear buds out carefully and letting them fall into his lap, "How'd it go?"</p><p>                Stiles went to the other side of the bed from where Derek was laying down and flopped face-first onto it. He groaned before turning over to face his mate. "It was a little more emotional than I was expecting, but I think it was good." He shrugged as well as he could given he was laying on his side. "He approves of us, by the way. Practically gave us his blessing." Derek lifted an eyebrow at that. "Not in so many words," Stiles allowed, "But still."</p><p>                Derek huffed a small laugh through his nose and smiled softly. "Ready for bed? You feel exhausted."</p><p>                Stiles laughed lightly. "Understatement of the century," he said. He shifted as he worked out how to word what he wanted to say. He wanted to sleep here, but he wasn't sure how comfortable Derek would be with that. Also, pajamas. Nobody had brought anything for him that he could tell, so was he expected to just sleep in his clothes? It wouldn't be the first time he'd done it, but he didn't particularly want to either. He wondered what it might be like to wear Derek's clothes. He imagined they'd be a little loose on him, and that thought went straight south.</p><p>                Derek quirked his lips lightly. "What?" He asked. He seemed very close to wanting to tease Stiles for the arousal that was likely shooting through their bond at the moment—the scent of which must be assaulting his nostrils as well. If Derek wasn't familiar with that particular twist to Stiles' usual scent by now, he certainly would be very shortly.</p><p>                Stiles sighed. "Pajamas," he said simply. "No, I will not elaborate."</p><p>                Derek's face broke out in one of the most gorgeous smiles Stiles had ever seen. It certainly wasn't helping the situation any, which he could tell Derek recognized given how Derek's eyebrows rose as soon as Stiles' body made his interest clear. "Seriously, Stiles?" His tone at least wasn't anything more than light and teasing. Though, interestingly, the bond began to color with interest, too, so he at least knew that Derek didn't mind much.</p><p>                Stiles flopped his face down onto the bedspread. "Get me some comfy clothes already so I can sleep," he insisted. His neck heated, which spread up towards his cheeks. "Fuck me," he whispered.</p><p>                The bond thrummed with even more interest, which made Stiles' cheeks grow impossibly warmer. So, great, Derek had heard him. Stiles brought his head up to level a scathing look at Derek. "Not a word, Hale."</p><p>                Derek pantomimed zipping his lips and throwing away the key, but his eyes were alight with delight and what Stiles could only call mischief.</p><p>                Stiles' heart stuttered at the last word, as it often did when the word came up. Mischief. His mom's nickname for him. He and his dad hadn't used it since he was young, but it still had the same effect on him. It always brought a bit of sadness, now.</p><p>                Derek's brow furrowed, indicating he'd felt the turn in Stiles' emotions, but Stiles shook his head and Derek moved towards his closet, not pressing about the sudden shift. Stiles was incredibly grateful. He didn't really want to talk about his mom on a day that had already been pretty emotionally exhausting. Though he wasn't entirely sure how soon they'd get into tragic backstory territory anyway.</p><p>                Derek ruffled around for a couple minutes before bringing out a pair of gray basketball shorts and a simple white t-shirt. "I figure you might be hot if I gave you anything warmer," he said. "Werewolves run hotter than humans, and given it's the start of summer, I didn't want you waking up in a pool of your own sweat."</p><p>                Derek handed them off, and Stiles smiled softly at him. "Thanks," he said. "So I take it I'm not staying in the guest bedroom, then?"</p><p>                Derek looked startled at that, then his expression shuttered into something hard, the bond growing somehow cold. "If you'd prefer the guest bedroom—"</p><p>                "No!" Stiles insisted. "No, I would love to sleep with—I mean, sleep beside you. I just—" He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I didn't want to make assumptions just because of the whole mate thing."</p><p>                Derek softened at that, the bond growing warm again. "Of course I want you here, Stiles," he said sincerely. "I'm in this if you are."</p><p>                Stiles smiled widely at that. "Good," he said, "Cause I would very much love to cuddle with my mate, if he'd be so inclined."</p><p>                Derek rolled his eyes fondly. "Oh, he is definitely so inclined," he said, smiling.</p><p>                Stiles ducked his head and smiled, then chanced a glance up to note that Derek was looking at him like he was the only thing that mattered. Unsure of how to deal with that, Stiles quickly ducked his head again and rushed out of the room to change.</p><p>                Stiles changed and used the bathroom quickly, careful not to look in the mirror as he did—he still didn't particularly like what he saw there. Stiles was pleased to note, though, that he was practically swimming in Derek's clothes. He'd never particularly acknowledged that he liked that Derek was beefier than him, but the reminder certainly wasn't a bad thing.</p><p>                By the time he got back to the bedroom, Derek had already changed into something similar to what he'd given Stiles. When Derek saw him, the bond grew almost heated and Derek very obviously raked his eyes across Stiles' body. Stiles couldn't exactly say he hated the attention. It was nice to feel wanted.</p><p>                Stiles appreciated the view himself, of course. Derek filled out his clothes incredibly well, after all, but that was no surprise. The man was nothing if not made of muscle. Stiles allowed himself to drink his fill, cataloguing every bit of skin on display.</p><p>                He stifled a rather large yawn behind his hand. "Not that I have anything against this mutual checking out thing," he said, "but we have all day tomorrow to do that."</p><p>                Derek shook his head and gestured to the bed before getting into his side. "Sorry," he said when he settled, as Stiles made his way to the other side. "It's just. Wolves have this thing about scent, and you wearing my clothes is just a lot."</p><p>                Stiles quirked his lips as he climbed into bed. "Would you prefer I take them off?" His heart thumped a little faster at the thought, though he kept his tone as light as he could manage.</p><p>                Derek gulped and shook his head, the bond tinging just this side of indecent in terms of interest. "Sleep, Stiles," he ordered, though his voice was rough.</p><p>                Stiles held his hands up and slipped under the covers, shuffling over until he was right next to Derek. "I'm guessing you're big spoon, big guy?"</p><p>                Derek grumbled something, but shoved Stiles so he was facing away from Derek before slotting himself against Stiles' back. "Sleep, please."</p><p>                As Derek's warm breath ghosted against Stiles' neck and the werewolf body heat brought him to the brink of comfortably warm, Stiles' only thought was that it couldn't get much better than this.</p><p> </p><p>* * *</p><p> </p><p>                The next time Stiles woke, he was starfish-ed across the front of Derek's torso, his head having apparently found a pillow in Derek's pec. Stiles grinned giddily while he tried to blink the sleep out of his eyes so he could look at the clock on the nightstand. What he found instead made his blood run cold.</p><p>                Crouched low enough that her face was level with Stiles' was someone that Stiles had met once, someone who Stiles knew had been disgraced by her family, her name tainted through the revelation that she had committed unspeakable atrocities. Stiles had never expected to meet her again given the fact that she'd died, and he had been more than a little glad about it.</p><p>                Kate Argent brought a single finger to her lips, a wry and terrifying smile plastered on her face.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Suicide- brief mention of Stiles' suicide attempt during his conversation with his father<br/>Anxiety- just a general anxiety thing here. I feel like it's just gonna be a general underlying thing over the course of the fic tbh.<br/>Gonna stick a general Kate Argent warning here too. :)</p><p>ALSO some slight blood warnings. We gettin into that canon-typical violence tag now folks.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>